When Gretchen came in to open up this morning, there was McMurray, waiting outside the door for her to open it. He followed her in and immediately asked to see me as soon as possible. Given my schedule today, unfortunately, poor McMurray had to hang out in the reception area with Gretchen until a quarter past ten.
“Long time, no see,” I casually remarked as I shut the door to my inner sanctum behind us.
“Yeah,” McMurray coughed out in an embarrassed tone, “I, well… you know… work… got married up there in Philly… couple of kids, five and eight, both boys… you lose touch with friends,” he shrugged as he eyed the chairs and the couch. “These,” he declared with a sweep of his arm. “They mean something, don’t they? Which I choose, that is.”
“I do indeed,” I admitted, “draw various conclusions from the decisions my clients make about where to sit.”
“But,” McMurray observed, “now that I’ve mentioned it, I can sit anywhere, and you won’t be able to draw one, correct?”
“Sure,” I nodded as McMurray chose the chair between the door and the book case – the one which offers the easiest and clearest view of the White House through the picture window behind the couch. People who choose that are, among other things, obsessed with the worship of power. Not that I was going to say anything about that to McMurray, of course.
“So what brings you to my office this morning,” I began, using one of my standard openings.
“Uh… well, first of all,” McMurray stammered, “I… that is… um…”
“Forget about the fee,” I told him matter-of-factly. “There’s no way I’d expect a family man videographer from Philadelphia to pay my standard consultation rates.”
“Oh, Jesus, thanks,” he sighed, betraying obvious relief. “That’s great, because actually, I just lost my job. That’s what I’m here to see you about.”
“What happened?” I asked, providing McMurray with ample time to compose his thoughts as I poured us both chilled glasses of Ramlösa water over Evian ice cubes.
“I… um… you know that television advertisement the National Republican Senatorial Committee hired Jamestown Associates to produce for John Raese? The one with… ah… with the… with…”
“The one with the West Virginia hicks in it?” I interjected.
McMurray blushed red as a beet. “Yeah,” he ruefully muttered, “that one. Jamestown hired Kathy Wickline Casting, the company I worked for, to produce that commercial. The idea was to show West Virginia guys in a diner, talking about how Joe Manchin, the Democrat who’s running against Raese for US Senate from West Virginia, is okay when he’s at home, but when he gets to Washington, he turns into an Obama liberal.”
“I’ve seen that ad,” I assured him, “on the Internet. What about it?”
“Um… I… I was…” McMurray groped for words, finally finding them. “Well, I wrote the casting call notes.”
“Hmm,” I mused as I punched up a display on my office desktop computer. “Didn’t Jamestown Associates send you an e-mail?”
“Yes,” he sadly confirmed, hanging his head, “they did.”
“And it said…” I continued, “let’s see here… ‘One male, age about 55; looking for someone to represent the middle of the country… Ohio, Pittsburgh, West Virginia area; middle class. One male, age about 45, middle class; again, should represent the Ohio, Pittsburgh, West Virginia area of the country. Five background characters: Mother, Child, Elderly Couple, 20’s-ish Male.”
“Yeah,” McMurray gulped. “That’s what the e-mail they sent Kathy said.”
“But then,” I pressed, “you put out a casting call that said…”
“Hold it, Tom!” McMurray interrupted. “Sure, they sent an e-mail to my boss, and it said just what you read. But then they had this guy from Jamestown Associates call me!”
“And I don’t suppose,” I inquired, “you have a recording of that?”
“Of course not!” McMurray protested. “If somebody calls you on a telephone land line, why, these days, that’s about the last place left where you can’t record what they say without going to jail! So no, I don’t have a recording. But I sure heard what he said.”
“Which was?” I avidly pursued as I handed him his glass of Ramlösa water.
“That if we ever wanted to work for Jamestown Associates or the Republicans again, I’d better make damn sure this ad was convincing,” he told me between swigs. “And then this guy read me a list of what John Raese and the National Republican Senatorial Committee really wanted.”
“Which was?” I prodded as I reclined once more behind my desk.
“He said they wanted coal miner, farmer and truck driver types with big-eared, buck-toothed authentic hayseed looks,” McMurray whispered hoarsely. “He ordered beat-up John Deer gimme-caps, faded jeans, down-filled vests, Dickie’s type jackets with T-shirts underneath and dirty work boots; everything old and worn out. He was saying things like ‘nobody dressed all in black, no thin stripes – they have to be wearing plaid or faded solid colors.’ Tom, you’ve got to believe me, he said he wanted to see chicken flicks, cow-licks and country hicks, straight up and no chaser!”
“And so you wrote it all down…” I concluded.
“Yes,” he confessed with a sob, “like a fool, I did, and then I put all of it in the casting call! And after the commercial went on the air and somebody leaked the casting call notes to the media, the whole thing blew up in Raese’s face, because he’s a rich piece of [expletive] who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and doesn’t even really live in West Virginia!”
“Oh,” I remarked, “just like the other US senator from West Virginia. Except he’s a Democrat.”
“Look,” McMurray insisted, “I don’t give a [expletive] who the next US senator from West Virginia is! I didn’t then, and I don’t now! But I’m the guy who got fired because of this crap! I’m the one who got screwed for giving the Republicans what they wanted!”
“Let that be a lesson to you,” I suggested.
“Tom,” McMurray wept, pitifully, “screw the Republican billionaires and the working-class dupes who screw themselves by voting for them! I need a job! Can you pull some strings to get me a video production gig here in DC?”
“Suppose,” I hypothesized, “that, despite the fact that he obviously thinks West Virginians are nothing but useless, unwashed, ignorant rednecks who don’t even deserve to earn the minimum wage, they elect John Raese their next US senator anyway. How’d you like to follow that evil S.O.B. around Capitol Hill with a video camera?”
“Why,” McMurray proclaimed, brightening considerably, “I’d love it!”
“Fine,” I told him as I reached for the phone, “then let me call a friend of mine at C-SPAN.”
Right. So now, let’s see what’s in that old Quarterly Mailbag!
First of all, I know many readers have complained that, due to the irreparable damage the Internet in general and Web in particular have done to their attention spans, they would appreciate it if I could just cut to the chase sometimes, but I really do believe that context is important, particularly nowadays. So yeah, I went on quite a bit about that cookout on July 3 before addressing the post’s actual subject matter, but, on the other hand, many thanks to all the fine folks who sent in their own favorite barbecue recipes in response to my typically chatty introduction. In deference to the distaff school of thought, however, I won’t delve into any of those here – but I do promise to review them all and try out some of the more promising prospects; and, furthermore, to mention them under the appropriate circumstances in the future. As for my neighbor Benson’s anxieties concerning the possibility that he had inadvertently married an undercover Russian spy, I got a surprising number of e-mails from many gentlemen, and quite a few women – not to mention other individuals of several miscellaneous genders – each expressing profound fears that they, too, were married, related to, living with or having some sort of meaningful relationship, or at the very least, a remarkably torrid affair, with a foreign spy, who was usually, but not always, a Russian. I’d say, if it floats your boat, keep on believing in it; otherwise, kick ‘em to the curb and find another fish in the sea. Either way, if they really are a spy, and you can’t prove it, don’t worry about the FBI being able to.
As for the readers who wrote in to inquire about Colonel Frances “Buster” Highman, the details of whose visit to my office I related in my post on July 10, and what’s up with his name, I would advise that (a) “Frances” is, in fact, a male name, just not west of the Mississippi; (b) he says he’s been called “Buster” since he was about five; and, (c) when, in response to my readers’ many inquiries about – ahem – any unusual experiences associated with being Colonel Buster Highman, he replied “Well, whatever’s happened to me, it’s got to be a damn sight better than being this guy who works for me – Major Dick Sexauer! And the guy who reports to him – Captain Peter Head? Forget about it! On the other hand, at least they’re not gay. Or at least I don’t think so, anyhow. I’ve never asked, and they haven’t told me anything one way or the other.”
Horror stories about people like my brother-in-law, Henry Palikowsi, poured in after my July 17 post where I revealed to the world what a fool he’s making of himself running around like a jackanapes full of Jimson weed spouting TEA Party nonsense to and fro as if he were a member of some latter-day Sturmabteilung on ice. This particular manifestation of political dementia seems to be growing like topsy among the ranks of educated people who graduated from college and really ought to know better. My take on that is, if you have a TEA Party problem in your family, make sure that person knows what happened to the SA after the leader they so fanatically backed actually achieved the national political power they figured that person deserved.
Along those lines, supporters and detractors alike of Andrew Breitbart, Tom Vilsack, and Shirley Sherrod all sent me e-mails weighing in with their considered opinions concerning my post on July 24. I must say, it’s completely amazing sometimes, to see myself as others see me, or, at any rate, as they perceive me through what I write in my Web log. The range of opinions about me that I read often leads me to wonder who the hell I really am, frankly, and the reaction to this post was a better example of that than most. As a matter of fact, reviewing the various messages I received about it, I think I need to take a brief break in order to re-integrate my identity into its constituent eqo, superego and id… There, that’s better. Now, where was I? Oh yes, now I remember. Okay – you folks who think Andrew Breitbart is a moron, you’re right, but the problem is, he’s a very dangerous moron. Those of you who think Andrew Breitbart is a genius, well, you’re a bunch of morons. But you’re not dangerous, because you’re too stupid to do anything effective. Those of you who think Shirley Sherrod is a heroine, yes, she is, but she never wanted to be, and actually, she’d like nothing better than if you were to simply leave her alone. Those of you who think she’s some kind of Socialist villain are paranoid lunatics, but your e-mails all clearly demonstrate that just a few weeks on the proper medication will calm you down sufficiently to a point where you will pose no particular threat to yourself or others. Those of you who think Tom Vilsack doesn’t have a clue are absolutely correct; those of you who insist that he’s simply surrounded by bumbling buffoons and hampered by a staff of incompetent idiots are also likewise correct – and what makes both states of nature possible at the same time is that he hasn’t done anything about the situation because he doesn’t have a clue.
My July 31 post seems to indicate that “Ahmed” is starting to accumulate what appears to be a fan base. What can I say? The guy’s certainly a quite a character, that’s for sure. Everybody from US diplomats to military grunts who did time in Iraq wrote in to tell me how much he reminds them of the colorful and enchanting Iraqi people they met while broiling their virtuous American brains under that ancient and merciless Sumerian sun. “You think ‘Ahmed’ has nasty B.O.?” Lieutenant Bacon Pancake of the Ohio National Guard jocularly inquired. “If an IED concussion hadn’t knocked out my sense of smell after two weeks in Baghdad, I swear I would have died of dehydration from puking my guts up inside of a month!” Yes, I think we Americans have all learned something from our military experiences in the Gulf (Arabian or Persian, take your pick) bringing the light of justice, democracy and freedom to our beloved sand-dwelling brothers and sisters, and that’s the inestimable value of soap and water. And air conditioning. And not being eaten alive by blood-sucking insects. Or camel spider, either. Other folks have boasted to me that they have figured out who “Ahmed” really is, and I must say, I’ve derived a considerable amount of amusement from their efforts. Furthermore, for the record, one of you got it right – moreover, this person displayed sufficient perspicacity to include a countersign string in their e-mail. So – “madamimadam” you got it, “a man a plan a canal panama!” What hoot! Who’d have thunk it, huh?
As for my August 8 post concerning Ken Cuccinelli, Attorney General of the Commonwealth of Virginia, many thanks to the throng of avid readers who wrote in to tell me that the Virginia legislator who’s in cahoots with Iron Man Ken is none other than Virginia State Delegate Bob Marshall (R, 13th District). Bob, it seems, pitches, while Ken catches, as it were. Old Robert’s the one who, using his powers as a Virginia delegate, duly issues hard, hard copies, over and over again, ardently requesting Ken’s opinions on various issues the two of them are extremely interested in, like gay marriage, legalized pot and hiring illegal immigrants to do housework and not paying their Social Security taxes. Why a couple of guys like that bother hanging around in Virginia when they could be living in San Francisco beats me, but hey – to each his own. Also, props to the twenty-six Sugar Hill Gang fans who wrote in, too, BTW.
GZPZ – has it only been since August 14 that I posted about Charlie Rangel? Considering what we’ve heard about him since then, it might as well have been ten years ago! So kudos to the few savvy souls who e-mailed to observe that, while the Pelosi/Reid congressional hegemony has successfully buried Charlie’s angles for the moment, guaranteeing a post-election trial, just wait for the lame-duck session fireworks! Could be, but I’d say, unless the Republicans nail down definitive control of both the House and the Senate next month, Charlie’s headed for retirement to the Ngorongoro Crater or someplace very much like it. Harlem? Watts? Shaw? What’s the difference?
Sometimes, when I read my e-mails, I sincerely wish the people from places like Yemen who consider me a morally degenerate puppet of the American Zionist Wall Street Conspiracy and the people from places like Idaho who consider me a disgraceful terrorist-coddling UN-controlled New World Order traitor to Jesus, Freedom, Capitalism and the Constitution could get together and rip each other to pieces with their bare hands while I record them on video for YouTube. (Talk about Bum Fights!) My August 20 post, in which I related one of my rather rare conversations with Iranian President Mahmud Ahmadinejad, drew such torrents of excoriation and vitriol from such bozos, the likes of which I have not seen since, well, my last bag of e-mail, frankly. Enough said.
Judging from the response to my August 26 post, though, I’d opine that, as far as ubiquitous obsessive fears which keep people awake at night go, Iranian atom bombs and CIA drone strikes run a mighty distant second (or even third) to bedbugs. And from what most of my far-flung correspondents tell me, if you don’t have them now, Dear Reader, you will soon. Not that I have them yet, but I do live in Great Falls, Virginia, after all. We’re pretty affluent out here in Great Falls, so maybe we won’t ever get them. I wouldn’t be the least surprised, actually. But what really did surprise me about that post is the number of folks who wrote in to say that they do, in fact, believe that bedbugs really are President Obama’s fault.
In light of my September 1 post’s subject matter, rather I expected vigorous, intelligent responses on both sides of the Israel / Palestine Question. What I got instead was a lot of e-mails from Israelis and Palestinians (and Arabs and Jews everywhere, actually) claiming that they invented falafel, and everybody knows it, too; that their hummus obviously tastes better and anyone who can’t discern the difference might as well eat cold dog food right out of the can; that the other folks wouldn’t know decent olive oil from clarified pork lard; that the other side’s women are the original thirsty skanks with legs akimbo; that their historical adversaries have more or less invented venereal diseases, leprosy and inbreeding, and so forth and so on. About the only difference was, while the Jews insisted the Palestinians are stupid and ignorant, the Palestinians, apparently knowing full well that they can’t possibly compete with the Jews on the Nobel Prize and huge piles of money fronts, uniformly insisted that Jewish men are hung like hamsters and are total duds in bed. On the other hand, both sides knowingly implied that the other guys are basically a bunch of secret queers and/or covert child molesters. And after reading all that guff, I’d like to remind those who wrote it that if you can’t think of anything nice to say, maybe you shouldn’t say anything at all. I mean, really, gimme a break, okay? Seriously, you keep talking like that, and who knows – maybe both sides will convince everybody else that you’re absolutely correct.
With respect to my September 8 post, the e-mails ran about fifty-five percent against burning Korans versus forty-five percent in favor. That latter group, however, consists of about four percentage point of people who want to burn Bibles and/or other religious texts besides the Koran just on general principles because they are either direct-action atheists, anarchists who will pounce on any pretext to destroy something symbolic, militant free-thinkers who would like to burn the buildings that house the various holy books along with them, radical fundamentalist Christians who want to burn any holy book that isn’t the Bible, or miscellaneous raving nutters whose motives, on the basis of their e-mails to me, anyway, aren’t entirely clear. So that means that only forty-one percent of my readership just wants to burn Korans, exclusively, for whatever reason(s), just because they are Korans. So, while it’s true that, adjusted for sundry confounding factors, forty-one percent is still not a majority, I think maybe these statistics indicate that the rational, peace-loving Moslems of the world who don’t want to get, let’s say, incinerated by a ten-megaton MIRV hydrogen bomb warhead launched from a US Navy nuclear submarine, for example, should perhaps give some serious thought to their religion’s current public image. If any of you folks like that out there can blackmail a member of the Pakistani ISI into revealing where Osama bin Laden is at the moment, for instance, that might be very helpful for everyone concerned. Just a thought.
My September 15 post about rampaging Nerds in Black terrorizing helpless Russian geeks in the name of the Business Software Alliance and Microsoft Copyright drew sixteen thousand, three hundred and eighty-four irate messages from totally satisfied Microsoft product owners, all of whom extolled the magnificent qualities of Microsoft Office, Microsoft .NET, Microsoft Windows and, of course, the Microsoft Xbox, after which they told me how sorry they are for someone as obviously plagued by mental illness as I must certainly be. They all came from the same IP address in Redmond Washington, of course. I also got several hundred e-mails from real people, who generally agreed that this time Gates, Ballmer and Company have definitely gone too far.
Christine O’Donnell supporters nearly crashed my Inbox with their rants and raves about the September 23 post, where I recounted how I gave Christine the instructions and ingredient list for the most powerful mystical curse-breaking spell in the entire solar system. (It’s Asian, naturally.) That, as the post makes quite clear, was so she can lose her money hex and get enough greenbacks stuffed in her little campaign coffer slot to win the upcoming election for US senator in Delaware this November. They all insisted that Christine doesn’t need any witchcraft to win because they’ve all gone down to the bank, drawn out their life savings, converted it to silver, and given it to her, so now she has plenty of money. Also their first-born children. Well, Holy Gris-Gris, mais Ton-Ton Macoute, congressional politics just keeps getting stranger all the time, doesn’t it? So you TEA Party folks just keep repeating that magic chant, okay? OH-WAH TAN-AH SIAM. Say it ten times and you will experience exquisite bliss. Say it a hundred times and you will know complete happiness. Say it a thousand times and your true nature will be mystically revealed. I guarantee totally effective results, without exception, for each and every one of you.
The September 30 post about FBI agents cheating on their exams drew sixteen thousand, three hundred and eighty-four irate message from solid America citizens, all demanding to know which evil foreign power put me up to slandering our nation’s finest law-enforcement officers and how much those international criminals paid me to do it. Those all came from the same IP address in Washington DC, of course.