Rather surprisingly, it was only forty-eight minutes after three o’clock on Friday (which is when he was supposed to show up) that I received a visit from Adarya Okhozidh Aqadumuhetchun, former Berber Matters Chargé d’ Affairs and current Supreme Policy Plenipotentiary of The Revolutionary People’s Bureau of the Great Socialist Libyan Arab Jamahiriya in the United States; better known to us capitalist infidels as the Libyan Embassy, 2600 Virginia Ave NW, Suite 412, Washington DC 20037-1996. He was drunk. That, however, was no surprise at all.
“Tom,” Aqadumuhetchun exclaimed as he sprawled on the couch underneath the picture window in my office, casting a covetous eye toward my liquor cabinet, “it is good to see you again.”
Well, crutnackers, at the prices the Libyans pay for my company, what else could I say?
“The feeling,” I lied, as I poured him a generous tot of Macallan 18 over Evian ice cubes, “is mutual. How may I be of assistance this afternoon?”
“As I’m sure you are aware, Tom, there is a somewhat… singular set of circumstances…” Aqadumuhetchun sighed with a slow shake of his head, followed by a deep swig of scotch, “…in Libya at the moment.”
“I take it,” I delicately surmised, “you’re referring to the present… ah, situation… with respect to… maintenance of civil order?”
“Correct,” Aqadumuhetchun affirmed. “And Our Fearless Infallible Brotherly Leader Colonel Muammar Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi, Magnificent Guide of the First of September Great Revolution, Commander of the People’s Revolutionary Council, Supreme Master of the Libyan Armed Forces, Chairman of the High Council for National Guidance, Beacon of Revolutionary Inspiration, Fount of Socialist Wisdom, Exemplar of Islamic Piety, Creator Genius of the Third Universal Theory, Direct and Blessed Descendant of Mohammed – Peace Be Upon Him – and International Man of Mystery has ordered me to consult you.”
“But he’s been the ruler of Libya,” I politely (and somewhat disingenuously) protested, “since before I was born! What could I possibly come up with that he hasn’t already thought of himself?”
“It is well known,” Aqadumuhetchun insisted, “from Tangiers to Islamabad, that you are the smartest person inside the Beltway.”
“Which,” I was quick to point out, “is a lot like being the tallest building in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore?” Aqadumuhetchun exclaimed. “You know Jack’s of Lombard Street?”
“Of course,” I assured him.
“Best corned beef and pastrami anywhere,” he vouched, licking his lips in fond remembrance. “Anytime I’m in Baltimore, that’s where I go.”
“You…” I carefully searched for the right words, “visit Baltimore to… obtain… kosher food?”
“Hell yeah,” Aqadumuhetchun assured me with a worldly wink. “It’s outstanding, and there’s no way I can get it at home.”
“The fact,” I discreetly inquired, “that Jack himself gave considerable amounts of money to the Irgun doesn’t bother you?”
“That’s just a rumor,” he rationalized, “and besides, even if it’s true, that hardly affects the quality of his Reuben sandwiches, does it?”
“I don’t suppose it could,” I conceded. “Tell, me,” I requested, “are the reports of Libyan government snipers shooting protesters true?”
“No, no, of course not,” Aqadumuhetchun replied with a distinctly dismissive tone. “The foreign media are simply attempting to demonize us, just as they always do. Those deaths were all suicides.”
“But the reports say,” I pointed out, “that many of them were shot in the back.”
“I’m sure they were,” he nodded. “The People’s Popular Conference for the Interior conducted a study more than thirty years ago which found that approximately twenty-two percent of Libyan suicides are due to people shooting themselves in the back – over half of them, in fact, at ranges exceeding ten meters.”
“Really?” I exclaimed. “Didn’t anyone find that observation to be… shall we say… somewhat extraordinary?”
“Only outsiders,” he flatly stated with an air of total certainty, “unfamiliar with the exceptional innate ingenuity of the Libyan people would do so. Libyans are desert dwellers; many of them nomads, accustomed to the continual presence of severe conditions and challenging circumstances, and therefore are extremely resourceful. For example, our government statistics also show that regardless of how they commit suicide, forty-eight percent manage to beat themselves up first.”
“Truly remarkable,” I dryly commented. “In addition, the media are reporting that protesters have taken over a radio station in Benghazi and are broadcasting their grievances with Colonel Gaddafi to the world.”
“All the radio stations in Benghazi,” he confidently told me, “have been shut down. That so-called ‘Radio Free Benghazi’ everyone is hearing originates from a CIA spy ship stationed in the Mediterranean Sea just outside Libyan territorial waters.”
“So what those radio broadcasts are saying,” I continued, “about Colonel Gaddafi’s plans to turn foreign fighters – whom the government has recruited and trained in military and terrorist tactics – against the Libyan people isn’t accurate?”
“That is nothing more than cheap and artless CIA propaganda,” Aqadumuhetchun insisted. “Made up of deliberate misrepresentations of the actual truth, gross distortions of the facts and wishful thinking invented by your State Department.”
“And the official videos released by the Libyan government?” I asked. “The ones that show Colonel Gaddafi riding, unconcerned, in an open convertible surrounded by throngs of enthusiastic, supportive and adoring Libyans?”
“Completely factual,” Aqadumuhetchun asserted, using just a bit too much emphasis.
“Okay then,” I shot back, “let’s see if I have this straight. A Tunisian college graduate who couldn’t find a job had his last hope of survival – the scales he used to weigh the vegetables he was vending from a cart – confiscated by the police because he didn’t have enough money to bribe them. In despair, he set himself on fire in front of the police station. That expression of hopelessness and anger unleashed a torrent of repressed rage and frustration that spread across Tunisia like a sandstorm off the Sahara. Before you know it, the Tunisian government falls and its president flees to exile. With that, the line of dominoes begins to wobble – Egypt topples, and its president retreats into hiding at a Red Sea resort. Meanwhile, protests break out in Algeria, Bahrain, Jordan, Morocco, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Yemen… and Libya. And the governments in Algeria, Bahrain, Jordan, Morocco, Saudi Arabia, Syria and Yemen are all totally bull-[expletive] about it, and I know they are, too, because their representatives have been bugging me for advice about what to do all week. But now you come in for a consultation, and tell me that on one hand, you’d like some advice, but, on the other hand, you Libyans don’t really have the same problem those other countries do. Instead, your problem is State Department propaganda and CIA orchestrated unrest inflicted upon poor Libya by evil America in an attempt to take advantage of the situation in neighboring countries; accompanied by a sudden rash of suicides, which is entirely coincidental anyway, and, in any case, Tripoli has things well under control. Now, am I more or less correct in my assessment?”
“Yes,” Aqadumuhetchun shrugged, “I suppose so.”
“Then why,” I politely demanded, “are you here?”
A long, pregnant pause ensued. Aqadumuhetchun slowly sipped his scotch as he stared up at the ceiling, then out the picture window at the White House, then down at the handmade antique Persian silk rug on the floor, then back up at the ceiling again. “Tell me, Tom,” he said at last, “what do you think of Colonel Gaddafi?”
“Well,” I slowly responded, “he’s… certainly a snazzy dresser.”
“That he is,” Aqadumuhetchun acknowledged, suddenly cheerful. “I’ve never seen him outdone.”
“Except, of course,” I noted, “that time Idi Amin upstaged him at the Non Aligned Nations Conference in 1979 in that pink satin Field Marshal’s uniform with twenty-four carat gold braid and matching oversized mop epaulettes.”
“I would hardly say Amin upstaged him,” Aqadumuhetchun snorted. “Colonel Gaddafi would never wear anything so tasteless. He has always shown impeccable style.”
“Such as that white dress uniform,” I suggested, “you know, the one with V-cut cuirass front jacket, embroidered military high collar, a big green sash and red trim on the hat?”
“Ah, yes,” Aqadumuhetchun happily recalled, “now, that’s class, I tell you.”
“Or his green dress uniform,” I suggested. “There’s another great example of the Gaddafi style.”
“Yes, and that,” Aqadumuhetchun opined, “is how you wear epaulettes!”
“Remember,” I asked, “how he pinned a picture to the right side of that uniform’s jacket – a photograph that depicted the 1931 arrest of Omar al Mukhtar, the anti-Italian guerilla fighter – and wore it to his public reception by Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi in Rome?”
“Truly an unforgettable fashion statement,” Aqadumuhetchun effused. “My favorite, though, is the powder blue Libyan Air Force uniform with the red embroidered gold laurel leaf collar tabs that match the red hat trim and the white laurel leaf embroidered sleeve bracelets – all set off by subtle red sleeve piping and a green sash with gold trim! And the gold mop epaulettes? Just the right size! Combine that with a nice pinpoint weave white cotton dress shirt and a black silk tie – Windsor knot, of course – and what do you have? Perfection!”
“Nothing the least bit ostentatious,” I remarked.
“Absolutely not,” Aqadumuhetchun agreed. “What can you say? It’s simply stunning, that’s all! But…” he murmured as he peered at me intently, “besides his wardrobe, what do you think of him?”
“I really like the Colonel’s all-female, all-hottie bodyguard contingent,” I declared. “What a bevy of bodacious babes they are! And the outfits he dresses them up in are pretty fantastic in their own right. Especially those neat cammie ensembles with the red berets.”
“Sure, sure,” Aqadumuhetchun responded with a slightly vexed wave of his hand, “they’re really sexy looking, especially when he has them armed with assault rifles. But what I mean, is… what do you think of him politically? Have you ever read his Green Book?”
“The book of Colonel Gaddafi’s political, economic and social philosophy,” I inquired, “that angry protesters are… not burning in public demonstrations all over Libya at the moment while screaming for his immediate downfall?”
“Yes,” Aqadumuhetchun coughed out nervously, “that one.”
“’Part One,’” I recited, “’The Solution of the Problem of Democracy.’ Democracy is disguised dictatorship. No parliament can truly or adequately represent the people. All plebiscites are a frauds. Political parties are unworkable because they represent segments of the population, while the sovereignty of the people is indivisible. Throughout history, all attempts at unifying the material base of a society in order to solve the problem of government, or at putting an end to the struggle in favor of a party, class, sect or tribe have failed. To continue such practices is a mockery of the people. Popular Conferences, as designed by Colonel Gaddafi, are the only means to achieve effective and fair government that serves the interests of the people. The General People’s Congress, as decreed by Colonel Gaddafi, is not a gathering of persons or members such as those of a parliament but, rather, a gathering of the Popular Conferences and People’s Committees. Thus, the problem of the instrument of government is naturally solved. The essential problem of freedom in the modern age is that constitutions have become the law of societies. But the law of society is an eternal human heritage. Therefore, laws which are not premised on religion and tradition are merely inventions used for oppression. Consequently, such laws and the constitutions which support them are invalid. Only the people, through Colonel Gaddafi’s system of Basic Popular Conferences, can secure self-supervision over a set of laws properly framed on principles of tradition and religion. The problem of freedom of the press cannot be solved independently of that of democracy in society as a whole; and that solution is Colonel Gaddafi’s Third Universal Theory. Thus, the era of the masses, which follows the age of the republics, denotes genuine freedom of the masses and their emancipation from the bonds of external authoritarian powers. ‘Part Two, The Structure of Islamic Socialism.’ The economic conceptual basis of Islamic Socialism is the Glorious Third Universal Theory of Colonel Gaddafi. The ultimate solution lies in abolishing the wage system, emancipating people from its bondage and reverting to the natural laws which defined relationships before the emergence of classes, forms of governments and man-made laws. All previous historical theories approached economic theory either from the concept of ownership of the means of production or from that of class struggle by wage earners. In reality, economies consist only of raw materials, producers and the means of production. The aspiration of the Islamic Socialist is to create a society which is happy because it is free. This can only be achieved by satisfying the people’s material and spiritual needs, and that, in turn, comes about through the liberation of these needs from the control of others. Therefore, no one has the right to undertake an economic activity whereby wealth exceeding the satisfaction of one’s needs can be…”
“Enough!” Aqadumuhetchun interrupted. “Very well, then. You know the Green Book. So what do you think of it?”
“Have you,” I asked him bluntly, “ever heard of Theodore John ‘Ted’ Kaczynski?”
“I… don’t actually recall the name, no,” Aqadumuhetchun admitted.
“Well,” I explained, “through the application of some rather… unconventional tactics, he managed to get his manifesto printed in the New York Times. Mostly, the content of Colonel Gaddafi’s Green Book reminds me of that.”
“And where,” Aqadumuhetchun wondered aloud, “is this Ted Kaczynski now?”
“Locked up for the rest of his life in a US federal prison,” I revealed.
“Oh.” Aqadumuhetchun’s face fell. “For thinking such thoughts as were printed in the New York Times?”
“No,” I clarified, “for trying to implement them by blowing people up with mail bombs. Sound familiar?”
Aqadumuhetchun pondered my question for a while as he finished his scotch. I took the glass from his hand, added some more Evian ice cubes and poured him another shot of Macallan 18.
“Mail bombs,” I prodded as I handed him the second scotch, “military coups – they’re both ‘direct action in the service of a political cause’ aren’t they?”
“All right,” Aqadumuhetchun moaned as he took a righteous swig from his new drink, “I’ll level with you. Because of these [expletive] riots all over the country, our Fearless Brotherly Leader is – not to put too fine a point on it – no longer fearless. In fact,” Aqadumuhetchun sat up and leaned forward to confess in a hushed tone, “as of this morning, Colonel Muammar Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi, Magnificent Guide of the First of September Great Revolution, Commander of the People’s Revolutionary Council, Supreme Master of the Libyan Armed Forces, Chairman of the High Council for National Guidance, Beacon of Revolutionary Inspiration, Fount of Socialist Wisdom, Exemplar of Islamic Piety, Creator Genius of the Third Universal Theory, Direct and Blessed Descendant of Mohammed – Peace Be Upon Him – and International Man of Mystery is totally bull-[expletive]!”
“And now that we’ve established that,” I concluded, “what would you like me to do?”
“Provide some advice,” Aqadumuhetchun beseeched, “on how to get away from Libya and survive afterward without being arrested or killed!”
“That,” I cautioned, “is not going to be easy for somebody like Colonel Gaddafi.”
“Gaddafi?” Aqadumuhetchun spat. “Screw him! I’m talking about me!”