Strangely, there was nothing in McConnell’s script about the time Jesse Helms, in an elevator with fellow senators — including Carole Moseley-Braun just after she’d spoken in the Senate, denouncing slavery and the Confederate flag — turned to his friend Orin Hatch and said, “I’m going to sing ‘Dixie’ until she cries.” Or the times he called civil rights activists “Communists and sex perverts,” and accused “Negroes and whites” on a march from Selma to Montgomery of participating in “sex orgies of the rawest sort.” Or when he described gay men and lesbians as “weak, morally sick wretches” who engage in “offensive and revolting conduct.”

Then there is Jesse’s deeply kind Senate record. FOR: tobacco companies. AGAINST: the Civil Rights Act; school desegregation; affirmative action; sanctions against Apartheid South Africa; commemorating the birthday of Martin Luther King; HIV-positive people entering the country; funding for “indecent” art; funding for AIDS research…

Verily, Jesse Helms’s brand of kindness makes Jesus look like a commie fag. That is why we — the Theater of Morally Sick Negro and White Wretched Communist Perverts — wish to salute Jesse Helms in a powerful piece of government-funded, rightwing performance art! Since most of us can’t remember our lines, we’ve decided to rip off Marcel Marceau’s loveable little character, “Bip,” and present this play in pantomime. Observe.

A lonely horizon in liberal America. Bleak. Desolate. Depraved. Enter Bleep, the sad, heterosexual mime. A teardrop glistens on Bleep’s whitened face; the ends of Bleep’s mouth dip downward; even the stripes on Bleep’s little shirt droop dejectedly. Bleep suffers because the world is full of MORALLY SICK NEGRO AND WHITE WRETCHED COMMUNIST PERVERTS. (Since this is one of those cutting-edge, didactic opuses, disgusting slides of lunch-counter sit-ins, ACT-UP demonstrations, women’s peace groups, Nelson Mandela walking out of prison, etc., are flashed onto a scrim, so we can see what the real problem is.)

Bleep dejectedly whistles “Dixie” as he mimes packing his wee lunch, picking up his briefcase, and setting off for work. Pressing a make-believe button, he steps unsuspectingly into an invisible elevator. Suddenly, horrible rap music blares, as Satan — played by Carol Moseley-Braun — enters and pantomimes slapping Bleep silly. She tries to strangle Bleep with a kente cloth, then dances luridly away, inadvertently dropping her handbag.

Alone in the elevator, Bleep kneels in prayer. He vows to lead a more decent life and fight MORALLY SICK NEGRO AND WHITE WRETCHED COMMUNIST PERVERTS. Then, from Above, a spotlight falls and caves in Bleep’s head. We laugh until our sides ache, in keeping with government standards of decency.

Bleep, now wearing a neck brace and a cross, is ready to fight the good fight! He picks up Satan’s handbag and begins walking with it through a park, toward FBI headquarters, where he plans to become an agent. As Bleep walks, he tips his hat in a wholesome way to unseen nannies pushing strollers. He pauses to pet imaginary kitties and sniff phantom daisies. Naturally, you can tell exactly what is happening because Mime is the universal language!

Suddenly from nowhere, a gang of MORALLY SICK NEGRO AND WHITE WRETCHED COMMUNIST PERVERTS sees Bleep’s purse and decides he is “coming on” to them. Overcome with sexual lust they cannot control, due to their inferior genomes, they pile on top of Bleep and participate in a sex orgy of the rawest sort!

Boxer shorts, bras, condoms fly tragically across a maroon-tinted backdrop. A witch cackles. Somebody gets an abortion. A couple of extras, dressed as the HIV virus, recite marriage vows. But because only criminals have rights in this society, Bleep is the one who ends up in the police station.

A farmhouse. Bleak. Desolate. Foreclosed. Because of his whiteface privilege, the cops have released Bleep with a warning. Enter Bleep, distraught and bitter. Big Government has failed him. Bleep has decided to “Kill them all and let God sort them out.” As he waits for his sheets to come out of the dryer, Bleep smears his body with Semtex and sprinkles dynamite on the floor. Then he rolls around in an arty, yet Pro-Life, fashion.

A knock at the door. Pete Seeger has just wrecked his boat, the Clearwater, about a mile downstream. Will Bleep let him use the phone so Pete can continue to clean up the Hudson? Covered in explosives, Bleep seethes with rage at this final communist insult. Opting to become the first ever right-wing Christian suicide bomber, Bleep hurls his little body at the interloper, blowing up the entire theater and everyone in it.

Which only goes to show how evil MORALLY SICK NEGRO AND WHITE WRETCHED COMMUNIST PERVERTS really are.

The End. Maybe.

[SCENE I: Chic, Upper West Side restaurant]

SAMANTHA: [Striding in elegantly and sitting at table where the girls are waiting] Greetings, comrades! How glad I am that I — sexy, 50-year-old blonde girl, being fabulous and having much sex with men — meet you in favorite haute bourgeois bistro for sex talk. Look at dick of sultry, ethnic waiter — is not fabulous?

MIRANDA: [Rummaging impatiently through briefcase] Waiter dick unimportant for proper ordering, comrade. I, being caustic, hard-driven attorney with bright red hair, styled to evoke Great Mistakes in Hedge Trimming, no have time for frivolity. Must get back to office to shill for corporate capital –

SAMANTHA: Ooh, “shill” — sounds sexy, comrade!

MIRANDA: It is, comrade! Today, I defend sexy Fortune 500 Company owning Indian Point — nuclear power plant making much electricity for city — from selfish, unsexy officials who warn of nuclear disaster. My logic: Why upset capitalist system?

CHARLOTTE: [Sighing pertly] For myself, comrades, I — token person of dark hair color — esteem the finding of Perfect Monogamous Soul Mate as most high goal in consumerist free market society. This is exalted dream for which masses labor, regardless of increasing work hours, fear of layoff, dwindling surplus profit, endless war — and possible nuclear disaster. Heedless, heedless masses!

CARRIE: [Flexing highly toned abs, set off to perfection by jaunty, $5,000 Christian Dior ensemble resembling clothes of Carmen Miranda after werewolf attack] Ah, comrades — how good it is to exploit our lives in my column, earning many thousands of dollars more than other writers who, unlike me, have college vocabulary and knowledge of world history! [She signals waiter]

Greetings, comrade bit actor of exotic descent who is destined to receive five dollars each time this episode is played in rerun! Please give us four of your most costly watercress omelets, removing yoke and other caloric nutrients. Hurry — before more radioactive groundwater leaches from Indian Point into Hudson River!

CHARLOTTE: Comrade! This is too much food! Is not anorexia neoliberal pre-condition for true female happiness?

CARRIE: You are mistaken, comrade. We must order many expensive things — regardless of whether we shall actually consume them — so that our power may grow! Profit motive of late capitalism dictates terms of feminine value and we must obey.

CHARLOTTE: Agreed.

MIRANDA: Carrie, I am loving of your shoes!

CARRIE: They are foot-warping, spine-crippling Manolo Blahniks, costing $765! You see, comrades, glamorous allure of destructive footwear comes not only from physical sacrifice to wearer, but also from labor of anonymous, underpaid peasants who toil in abusive, outsourced factories. It is suffering of all classes that creates societal clout of Manolo Blahnik — brand name you can trust!

ALL: [Toasting] Carrie is our leader! Long live vanguard of post-industrial alienation from means of production!

[SCENE II: Carrie at home. Posed on her bed in the adolescent contortions of a 12-year-old with a stamp collection, she types on her sleek Mac laptop, now available online for under $13,000.00. Her voiceover narration:]

CARRIE: Later that night, I wonder why virile mogul boyfriend, Mr. Beeg, refuse to commit. Could this mirror my own sublimation of need for basic human contact into acquisition of designer commodities?

[Close-up of glowing computer screen, as Carrie types:] “Commodity fetishism: good or bad — and what if meltdown occur at Indian Point?” [Suddenly, sirens blare; horrific explosion is heard]

[SCENE III: Back at stark ruins of Manhattan bistro; the stunned, disheveled four are staring, in bleak, Chekhovian fashion, into a dimming sun setting over the roiling Hudson.]

MIRANDA: Men are annoying.

CARRIE: Men are peegs.

SAMANTHA: I try lesbian sex. Too much talk.

CARRIE: Gay men better. Make good pets.

CHARLOTTE: I, with Jewish husband, for whom I convert, have adopted child from faux-Communist country. Husband is kind; we are happy. Yet we never speak of Palestine.

MIRANDA: Please halt unsexy talk of Middle East, comrade.

SAMANTHA: Say, does anybody know why we are only four left alive after tragic — and totally unexpected — disaster at Indian Point?

CHARLOTTE: Perhaps something about Carrie’s shoes?

CARRIE: Correct, comrade! Thanks to healing power of Manolo Blahniks — commodity onto which we magically project desire to survive — we are, for now, protected.

CHARLOTTE: [Clutching stomach] Comrades, I don’t feel so good.

CARRIE: You must believe, comrade — believe in the brand.

MIRANDA: Must get her to shoe store, quick!

SAMANTHA: Ooh, “store” — sounds sexy, comrades…

[Holding one another up, they hobble off in search of Fifth Avenue.]

Santa’s appointment, along with the ouster of current FBI chief Robert S. Mueller, is hoped to quell decades of accusations that the Federal Bureau of Investigation abuses its power by spying on civilians. Last March, for example, the Inspector General’s audit found 22 possible breaches of internal FBI and Justice Department regulations, when the FBI made thousands of secret demands for private information on U.S. residents not suspected of terrorism.

“With Santa at the reins,” said President Bush, “no one can criticize U.S. intelligence again. Hey, what say we get Santa to take the fall for destroying those CIA interrogation tapes?”

During a half-hour confirmation hearing, Santa argued that, as an archetype of Western Culture’s bounty, with magic powers to look into the hearts of every U.S. resident, he needs no permission to monitor email, phone calls, or financial records. Simply by riding around in his sleigh, says Santa, he can circumvent the courts in a way previous FBI administrations could only dream of doing.

Senate Judiciary Committee member Tom Coburn (R-OK), reflected bi-partisan approval in stating, “The guy’s an investigative genius; he’s also a pagan symbol, so the church-state-separation loonies can’t hammer us. Plus, Santa’s so darn likeable, who could resist him? Look – he gave me this nifty HIV test kit.”

But Santa has a master plan, warn anonymous Santa’s Helpers concerned with a turn toward McCarthyism. In order to cut through surveillance red tape, Santa is creating one all-encompassing List, designating everyone as either “Naughty” or “Nice.” There are, say the Helpers, no legal safeguards to ensure that the List will be checked once, let alone twice.

Telephone companies, Internet service providers, and banks have sometimes been reluctant to surrender client information to the government. Now, in hopes of making the “Nice” list, most appear eager to be shaken down by a merry fat man. However, reactions of ordinary Americans are mixed.

Clyde Lichtenloafer, sequin placement manager for the Ice Capades, said he was delighted by Santa’s appointment, which makes routine intrusions into his privacy more appealing. “Now, whenever I pick up the phone,” said Mr. Lichtenloafer, “instead of the usual nasty hums and clicks, I hear the distant jingle of sleigh bells.”

But Memphis beautician Thelma Plattsburgh has qualms. “I don’t mind that Santa knows when I’m awake,” said Plattsburgh. “That’s his job, to catch the terrorists and all. But I don’t like that he can see me when I’m sleeping. I mean, who is he – Freddy Krueger? Like, last night, I had a dream that tiny red and green demons kidnapped me to the North Pole for interrogation. I woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, ‘I’ve been good, for goodness sake, stop HURTING me!’”

Prominent American intellectuals generally support Santa’s appointment, with the exception of the minority who employ irony and sarcasm. Noam Chomsky spoke for the caustic few when he stated, “In a country that seriously debates whether evolution should be taught in our schools, it makes perfect sense that Santa Claus is appointed head of the FBI.”

Chomsky, ever the current-events maven, cited the case of plucky, 8-year-old Billy Wiggims of East Lansing, Michigan, who has already been put on the “Naughty” list for writing a letter to Santa saying that he wanted world peace more than a new catcher’s mitt. Billy was kicked out of the Cub Scouts and will be tried as an adult on seven counts of terrorism and two counts of being a crybaby.

Yet no one appears to doubt that Santa Claus’s law enforcement methods are far superior – and kindlier – than those traditionally used by the FBI. Since its inception, the agency has been known for making wrongful arrests, illegally breaking into homes, vandalizing, stealing evidence, and hounding social justice activists including Albert Einstein, the Black Panther Party, and Dr. Martin Luther King.

Interestingly, denizens of the crime underworld, who have cooperated with the FBI, are familiar with its new director. “Sure, I know Santa,” said Turdface the Snitch, minor drug dealer on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, who declined to give his real name. “He’s a bagman. Also known as Nick, alias ‘Saint’ Nick, alias Pere Noel, alias Sinterklaas, alias Baba Christmas. Now, he’s J. Edgar Kringle. The dude’s got a rap sheet as long as your arm.”

Meanwhile, because of Santa’s busy new schedule, deposed FBI chief Mueller has been asked to fill in at holiday venues. Mueller currently appears as “Santa” at the Macy’s on 34th Street, dandling little children on his knee and emitting what has been described as a strained and rather disappointing “heh-heh-heh.”

Ultimately, say Justice Department insiders, until the government can put a jolly face on all its clandestine activities, every good little American will be well advised to (a) watch out, (b) not cry, (c) avoid pouting. Above all, cautions Turdface, “if somebody sneaks into your house late at night and cleans you out of everything, down to your very last cookie – don’t call the cops.”

These little Commanders make delightful pets -– provided they are no more than three inches tall. Otherwise, these unruly pests can attack sovereign countries, overrun entire populations, and get hold of fissionable material, possibly blowing up the world.

We don’t think it’s good science to fight global warming with nuclear winter. That is why we at “MoveOnYouMurderousThugs.org” have given up our email petitions and phone-in campaigns, and are working with expert gene-splicers to save the earth, using state-of-the-art cuteness. Our motto: “If Ya Can’t Beat ‘Em, Shrink ‘Em and Sell ‘Em as Pets!”

It’s fun and relaxing to observe the pugilistic antics of these tiny creatures, as they scream for help inside a glass jar with holes punched in the lid. And so healthy, too! Seeing your Commander finally out of the Middle East and under your control releases vital antioxidants into your bloodstream.

You’ll look better, feel better, as you realize that you are no longer forced to stand helplessly by and watch the genocide of yet another non-Christian people. So enjoy your wee warmonger, and look for our line of tiny, bio-engineered Congresspeople, military contractors, and Executive Branch higher-ups — coming soon to pet shops near you!

GETTING ACQUAINTED

When you arrive home, your pet will probably be all tuckered out from “ordering” you to let it go. Place it gently inside its cage and allow it to rest in total isolation for a few days. Give it a few drops of water and lots of Drano in its treat cup. Be sure and leave paper on the bottom of its cage. Shredded copies of the Patriot Act will do.

TAMING YOUR PET

There is a popular myth that three-inch U.S. Military Commanders are difficult to tame — nothing could be further from the truth! Moving slowly and quietly, so as not to startle your pet, reach into its cage and attempt to stroke its medals. Chances are your Commander will snap at you with hurtful epithets such as: “Unhand me, faggot,” or “Bitch, you can forget all about that troop reduction timetable.”

It is time to discipline your pet. Grasping its torso firmly between the thumb and forefinger of your left hand, bring the little fellow out of its cage. Now, slowly and gently crush its tiny head with the thumb of your right hand. Uh-oh — too hard! Bring out the electrical tape and bandage your pet, then hook it up to healing electrodes. Explain to it that thousands of American and Coalition troops are trying to get well in situations far worse than this. Repeat discipline as necessary.

FUN WITH YOUR PET

Now you are ready to accessorize. Buy a colorful plastic Habitrail and watch your Pentagon play-toy frolic, just like a real hamster. Then there’s the popular “Gitmo” terrarium, which offers a motivating environment in which your pet can endure life-changing encounters with tough GI-Joe guards.

Some owners get the most out of their action figures by putting their pets to work, making them run on little wheels that provide “green” power for cars and lawn mowers. Other owners have trained their charges to perform tricks, such as standing for hours on coffee tables, holding amusing wires in their outstretched paws. Still others have lent their Commanders to kids for science projects! The little guys are so cute, trying to figure out which lever releases the pellet and which delivers the electric shock.

At the end of a hard day’s work, turn on your kitchen blender, so your pet can relax in a stimulating whirlpool bath. Microwave dry.

ESCAPE!

Always return your pet to its cage and secure the door tightly when you are finished playing. And make sure the cage is made of reinforced steel. Top U.S. Military Commanders have been known to gnaw through bars of lesser metal and get lost for weeks inside attics, basements, and old Frigidaires. Nothing is more repulsive than seeing the wheezing head of some tiny war criminal pop out from your radiator, its tongue all blackened and dangling. They really make a mess, too, if you step on them.

Caution: Escapees can be dangerous. One pet Commander ran away from its home in Mission Hills, Kansas. It showed up a week later, dressed in a tasteless Storm Trooper costume, and tried to murder everyone with a cheese grater.

DISPOSAL

Ridiculous urban legends abound of people who, tired of their tiny Commanders, flushed them down the toilet, where their pets grew into gigantic reptiles, returned through the plumbing, and bit off their owners’ genitalia. HA HA!

These stories are absolutely true. If your pet has lost its cachet, please do not flush. Neither should you donate it to live bait shops, as this could introduce harmful toxins into our lakes and streams.

The most ecological thing to do is to return your pet to our laboratories. There, we will take your Top U.S. Military Commander down to our storage room, place it in a vault containing over 655,000 photos of the Iraqi dead, turn out the lights, close the door — and leave.

Note:

Habitrail.

“At approximately 5:45pm, petitioner and his wife were in their vehicle, stuck in traffic, when they saw members of the New York Police Department apprehend a young man, handcuff him, and physically abuse him while he was prone on the ground. Petitioner and his spouse exited their vehicle to inquire why police were engaging in that behavior, but immediately returned when ordered, without getting near the police or the young man. Sergeant Steven Talvy, however, approached the petitioner and his spouse and, after they identified themselves as attorneys, proceeded to strike petitioner numerous times in the head and face and strike petitioner’s wife in the face.”

Sergeant Talvy handcuffed Tarif and pushed him into the police van. Evelyn, though “stunned,” remembered her legal training and walked toward the mostly African-American crowd of onlookers:

“I said, ‘Did you see what was happening?’ Naturally, they did. All these people had poured out of a nearby McDonalds, plus it’s rush hour and traffic was deadlocked. I say, ‘Did anybody take photographs?’ They said, ‘Look at your jaw.’

“I didn’t know it, but my jaw was swelling up. So I said, ‘Take a picture of my jaw,’ you know?”

I saw Evelyn three days later; her jaw was still swollen. It could have been worse: Seeing that Evelyn was trying to retrieve her confiscated driver’s license, Sergeant Talvy ordered police to throw her to the ground, but the onlookers’ shouts stopped them. Evelyn and Tarif were taken to Brooklyn’s 77th Precinct.

“We were lined up against the wall with other prisoners. Tarif’s clothes were ripped and falling off him. I will never forget, there was this blond officer in Talvy’s unit – they were laughing together – and the guy said, ‘What’s this, a strip show?’

“You have to remember that Tarif and I were involved because the police were kicking this young man viciously. He was Black; probably around 18. His face was a bloody mess. Obviously, Talvy thought he could get away with it because he said, ‘Well, it’s your word against mine. Let’s see what happens.’”

What happened was that Tarif was charged with Obstructing Governmental Administration, Disorderly Conduct, and Resisting Arrest; Evelyn, with Disorderly Conduct. Reactions poured from the Black press and community; there was almost no coverage from mainstream media; and a resounding silence still emanates from the New York Times.

Three weeks later, I visit Evelyn at home. She tells me how she’s fighting to put her life back together:

“I grew up before segregation ended. My father was a contractor, a small-business person. He used to go to Mississippi to work. And every time he would leave for Mississippi, my mother would cry. So I recognize racism.

“I guess I was raised to be the best I could be in whatever I chose to do — by being the best, I could overcome certain conditions. I was foolish enough to believe that. I still know my value, but this incident tells me that they don’t know my value whether you’re a kid wearing baggy pants, or a lawyer wearing a suit and driving an upscale vehicle — it doesn’t matter to them.

“I should have been more aware of this. Tarif and I represent police brutality victims. I’ve heard accounts and seen the evidence, but to experience it firsthand — it’s earth-shattering. So I have a new appreciation for what people go through. While you live in a world that’s in turmoil, you still have a little corner where you feel safe and secure. I no longer have that. Before this, I was concerned about what was going on in Iraq, Africa, Venezuela. Now, I’m concerned about what goes on within ten blocks of where I live.

“Black people are hit harder by police than any other community – I know that. Tarif and I went to a meeting last Saturday where, in the projects, Black people are accosted coming out their door. Police say, ‘Let me see some identification.’ Now, if you’re coming out the door, you must have had some right to be there. Unless you’re seen carrying a TV or stereo system, why should you show ID?”

I ask Evelyn what she wants white people to know.

“I want them to know that what I’m telling is the truth. That any people of good moral standards should be concerned about law enforcement that’s out of control. At minimum, they should ask questions of Police Commissioner Kelly and of Mayor Bloomberg: ‘What’s going on, here? This is unacceptable.’ If those officers knew they could face charges just like any civilian, they’d think twice.”

Then Evelyn says something that stops me cold:

“I don’t know that the police look at us as human. I don’t know that they would hear us if we spoke to them.”

And I realize that, like many white people, I have lived for years with the genteel, self-protective assumption that, if I believed hard enough that Black and White people are equal, then the world must be OK. I realize it’s never been OK – that my friends are in danger – that our lives remain deeply divided.

“Tarif keeps saying this happened for a reason, that the Creator is on a mission here. But my overriding emotion, aside from sadness and feeling powerless, is anger. I’m determined to change things. Because, if that officer can do what he did to us, in broad daylight, with 50 to 100 people watching – what happens when nobody’s around?”

© Susie Day, 2007

“Man Is Stabbed in Attack After Admiring a Stranger,” wrote the comparatively well-mannered New York Times last August 19th.

The Manhattan district attorney says Patreese Johnson, one of the four, was the stabber. He charged her with attempted murder, and Johnson, Renata Hill, Venice Brown, and Terrain Dandridge with felony assault and gang assault. The man assaulted was Dwayne Buckle, 29, who, seeing the “gang” on the corner of 6th Avenue and 4th Street in Manhattan’s West Village, singled out Johnson because she was “slightly pretty.” He claimed he said, “Hi, how are you doing?”

Johnson, Hill, Brown, Dandridge, and three other women — a “seething sapphic septet,” according to the New York Post — had just gotten off the train from Newark, looking for a little fun. Being young, they knew the odds of fun were better in the Village; being lesbians, they knew fun was not to be had in the streets of Newark, where, four years earlier, 15-year-old Sakia Gunn was knifed to death by men who thought she was cute — until she told them she was gay.

Although what happened between these women and Dwayne Buckle was caught on surveillance cameras, there isn’t one newspaper account that doesn’t, somehow, conflict with the others. Dwayne Buckle, a “filmmaker” or “sound mixer” or “dvd bootlegger” -– depending on your news source -– evidently said more than “Hi”. The women contend he pointed to Patreese Johnson’s crotch and said, “Let me get some of that.” When Johnson answered, “No thank you, I’m not interested,” he told Johnson that he could fuck her and her friends straight.

Buckle says the women called his sneakers “cheap,” then slapped and spit at him, while he put his hands over his face to ward off the blows. The women say he spit at them and threw a cigarette. Buckle later admitted he called Venice Brown, because of her size, an elephant, and told one of the lesbians in a “low haircut” she looked like a man. Depending on your life experience, you’ll probably believe one side over the other. In any case, a melee ensued in which two or three male bystanders jumped in, either, says one side, as “good Samaritans” to defend the women, or, says the other side, because the women “recruited” them in the beating.

Naturally, there are details the press didn’t cover. Susan Tipograph, an attorney representing Renata Hill, supplies the fact that, at some point, Buckle pulled off one woman’s headpiece and tore out a patch of another’s hair –- which may be what he is seen swinging on the videotape, as he advances on the women.

According to Tipograph, Johnson, seeing that Buckle had Renata Hill in a choke-hold, took a 99-cent steak knife from her purse and swung it at Buckle’s arm, to get him to release Hill. After things quieted down, the women, with no apparent intent of fleeing the scene, went to the McDonald’s across the street, visited the bathroom, and got something to eat. Twenty-five minutes later, they were arrested a few blocks away, unaware the man they’d fought was injured. Buckle had, in fact, sustained stomach and liver lacerations, and was to spend the next five days in St. Vincent’s Hospital, recuperating. Interestingly, news media barely noticed that Dwayne Buckle is, himself, Black –- given his demonstrable heterosexuality, he has become, for purposes of the press, Everyman.

The trial did little to elucidate what happened. The videotape, played repeatedly, was, says Tipograph, highly inconclusive. At 95 pounds, 4 feet 11 inches, Patreese Johnson may not have had the strength or leverage to inflict much damage. Johnson still doesn’t know if she actually stabbed Buckle. One of the men who jumped into the fight may have done it, but, since the NYPD never tested Johnson’s knife for DNA evidence, we’ll never know. Long story short: the jury didn’t believe it was self-defense, and convicted the women.

Now it’s June 14, 2007. Johnson, Hill, Brown, and Dandridge are in State Supreme Court, being sentenced. The Times reporter notes how Judge Edward J. McLaughlin shows “little sympathy” as he lectures the defendants, saying “they should have heeded the nursery rhyme about ‘sticks and stones’ and walked away.” The judge “scoffs” at Johnson’s explanation that she carried a knife because she worked nights at Wal-Mart and needed protection getting home; he’s saying that Johnson’s “‘meek, weak’ demeanor” on the stand has been “an act.”

He sentences Johnson to 11 years in state prison; Renata Hill to 8 years, Terrain Dandridge to 3½, Venice Brown to 5, and the courtroom erupts. The defendants scream, “I’m a good girl!” and “Mommy, Mommy, I didn’t do this!” Brown and Hill, mothers themselves, will leave behind an infant and a 5-year-old.

“He lectured them as if he knew what their lives were about; he didn’t have a clue,” says Susan Tipograph. “Patreese Johnson is a 19-year-old kid. I’m sorry she’s not as forceful and together as a white, middle-aged man who’s been a judge for 20 years. He accused them of lying, of not being remorseful, of being predators. What happened that night was stupid, frankly. They should have walked away. But the sentences McLaughlin gave were off the charts.”

“PACK HOWLS – JUDGE WON’T BEND,” blares the New York Daily News. Some people say Justice was served. After all, you want to watch out for Black dykes with knives. But people who believe in this kind of justice talk like they know what prison is. Prison is about anything but justice, especially for the young, the queer, the African American.

Dwayne Buckle –- or anyone that night –- should not have been physically hurt. But, embedded within the charges and sentences these women received is an imploded violence that will damage lives deeply, years after the body’s wounds are healed.

If it only affected immigrants and foreigners captured in battle, this law would be bad enough — but when we learn that it also permits US citizens to be deemed “enemy combatants,” it’s time to ACT! Here, then, are some tips on proving to the feds that you are not the enemy:

1. BECOME A FAMOUS MOVIE STAR
Hollywood celebrities rarely, if ever, spend years in Guantánamo without charges, surrounded by barbed wire and vicious dogs. Their movies may bomb, but they never do, thanks to the virulent Red Scares that purged the motion picture industry of all terrorists, with the possible exception of Mel Gibson.

When you become a famous movie star, you will receive: a dazzling smile, affordable health insurance, and a rock-hard sense of self-esteem that comes from millions of government-indoctrinated nobodies knowing who you are. Push comes to shove and you are sent to a detention camp, guards will treat you better. “Hey, isn’t that Julia Roberts on that gurney? I loved her in Erin Brockovich. Maybe I’ll let her call her attorney. . . .”

2. EMIT NOXIOUS FUMES
No one will ever accuse you of Islamofascism as you proudly stand in solidarity with our great multinational corporations and spew harmful chemical, radioactive, and industrial waste into our ecosystem. By polluting rivers, the air, and low-income neighborhoods, you’ll garner lots of government perks, too, including military contracts and tax-breaks you could only dream of as an ordinary, “save-the-whales” citizen. Best of all, your carcinogenic emissions will increase chances that, among the thousands of Americans who die each year from environmentally caused cancer, one or two will be terrorists.

3. SCAPEGOAT SECULAR HUMANISTS
Stuck up, egghead Secular Humanists like Frank Rich and Noam Chomsky say that Islamic extremists are not the real problem. They’re right! The real problem is stuck up, egghead Secular Humanists!

Secular Humanists have caused terrorism, global warming, and every major disaster for the last 5,000 years — and it’s our duty to stop them before they TAKE OVER THE WORLD!

FACT: these intellectual malcontents have turned from God and home schooling to the golden calf of “Humanities”!

FACT: since the Crusades, Secular Humanists have stood at the center of a vast, satanic plot to STOP God-ordained conquest and unite humankind through Logic, Science, and Enlightenment!

FACT: Much of our US Constitution was written by these depraved, happiness-pursuing “Enlightenati”! Would you want one of these “created equal” degenerates to marry your sister?

Why are we waiting? Let’s show them God’s logic. Let’s show them the only way to prevent another Third Reich is with another Inquisition.

4. ACQUIRE A NUCLEAR WEAPON
If you are not an Arab, Communist, or person of color, announcing that you have a nuclear weapon capable of mass destruction will make you an instant ally of the United States! A small NB about the WMD, however: Do NOT make the mistake of that silly Iranian president, who followed the Non-Proliferation Treaty, inquired through proper channels about legally obtaining nuclear technology for “peaceful” purposes, and was called “Hitler” for his efforts. Please show that you are thoughtful enough to handle your ability to create perpetual nuclear winter by obtaining your WMD before you inform the US government. To make absolutely certain you’re in good standing, insist that the US government call you “France.”

5. DEVELOP AGORAPHOBIC CATATONIA
“All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.” A wise man said that in the 18th Century — a wise, stupid man. This man never looked ahead to the 21st Century, to see that doing nothing would become the apogee of cutting edge activism!

Remember the Afghanistan invasion? The Iraq invasion? All those meetings and lectures you went to, where you became “informed” and had “doubts” about WMD and al Qaeda connections? All that peace marching — once, with 10,000,000 people all over the world, so the destruction of millennia-old cultures and the slaughter of innocents wouldn’t happen? It happened anyway.

It happened because you left the house.

To prevent further mayhem, it is necessary to effect social change at home, by nonviolently reading your email. Uh-oh: look at all those listserves on murder and torture and indefinite detention. They force you to devise a new activist strategy: You must play “Minesweeper” and “Pac-Man” for the next four hours.

Now, for direct action! Using psychological skills honed at your computer, it is time to emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually “shut down.” This allows you to do radical civil disobedience while lying on your couch. As you remain in staunch protest, allow crises such as Darfur, AIDS, and our war on Iran to roll over you.

While they are rolling, turn on TV. Look, there’s a Sex and the City rerun. Enter the world of beautiful people with no real problems, lots of sex, and million-dollar hygiene. Why does New York City suddenly have so few Black people? Isn’t that gay person being treated like a pet?

Doesn’t matter. All good. Now, try to picture somebody water-boarding Sarah Jessica Parker. You can’t.

Ah, finally — you have effected social change.

Robertson wore a dignified charcoal gray business suit and carried a lovely ecru portfolio filled with Christian Broadcasting Network stock options. “I love Jesus,” Robertson told reporters after the ceremony. “And Jesus loves me — it’s in the Bible.”

According to anonymous highly placed sources attending the Throne of God, there is no scriptural evidence in any religious text to support the claim that Jesus Christ loves Pat Robertson. Yet Robertson remained ebullient.

Asked why he “popped the question,” Robertson replied, “It’s no secret, Jesus and I are more than friends. We’ve been in a committed relationship for years. He is with me, always. We watch TV together, bowl together, excoriate perverts together. When I predicted that acceptance of homosexuality would result in hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes, terrorist bombs, and possibly a meteor, Jesus was there — well, actually, I think he was in the shower, then — but basically, we’re an item. So one day I said, Whoa. Catholic nuns get to marry Jesus. How come those papist biddies have more rights than us red-blooded Protestant dudes?”

Ted Haggard, disgraced Pastor of the New Life Church, now graduated from sexual normalcy reprogramming, was Best Man. “This is so beautiful,” sobbed Haggard, who couldn’t stop crying. “Two manly men who want to conquer the world in the name of love, uniting forces. It’s another way of saying, “Lord, we are 100% heterosexual.”

Jesus, resplendent in a simple Laura Ashley gown decorated in faux bloodstains, also wept.

Present at the nuptials was Mary, Mother of Jesus, who stated that she would not offer the couple her blessings.

“My son, the martyr,” Mary sighed, flicking her cigarette ashes into the punch bowl. “I knew some day the kid would go too far. He was an extremist as a youth, busting up temple bake sales, driving defenseless, non-kosher animals into the sea, going around with that shiksa Magdalene, but I thought he would settle down. He never calls, he never writes — two thousand years later, I get an invitation to this farshtunkeneh thing. A tragedy — I say this as a mother and a virgin.”

Questioned as to her son’s possible motivation for his nuptials, Mary answered, “It’s pure ego — he’s out to save the world. I mean, having spikes driven into your extremities and getting hung up on a couple of boards — that’s got to hurt. But marrying Pat Robertson — now, THAT is agony. He’s a total codependent, my son.”

In a surprisingly modern break from matrimonial tradition, Robertson announced that he and his “Holier Half” will hyphenate their surname. “At first, I wanted Jesus to change his name to Jesus Robertson,” admitted the televangelist. “But then I realized that might make him look suspicious to the immigration authorities. So we have decided to become the Robertson-Christs.”

Foremost on everyone’s mind was Pat Robertson-Christ’s persistent condemnation of homosexuals. Reporters were eager to know if this wedding changes his views, particularly, of gay marriage.

“No, no,” smiled Roberts. “Don’t get me wrong. I continue to view homosexual marriage as a fetid, stench-filled puke-mire of lecherous maggots fornicating obscenely in disease-ridden coffins of pus. But God likes it when heterosexuals get married. And Jesus and I are real He-Men. Right, honey?”

Jesus asked Colonel Von Trapp for an Excedrin.

“I’ve looked into this marriage thing, and it’s got some major perks,” continued Robertson-Christ. “Under state law, for example, half of Jesus’ holding are now legally mine. So, besides our other moneymaking enterprises, the Christian Broadcasting Network finally owns the intellectual property rights to our heavenly Mascot. That means we can sue the Pope for copyright infringement.”

Conspicuously absent from the event was the virulently antigay evangelist Fred Phelps, who had been invited. “Aw, he’s just pissed he didn’t think of this first,” Robertson-Christ chuckled.

“I told Jesus and I told him,” said Mary, stepping in front of the news camera, “You think you can change this shmuck; you think you’re the only one who can understand him? HA! Mark my words, I said to Jesus: in a few weeks, you’ll be begging the cops for a restraining order.”

So saying, the Blessed Virgin excused herself, explaining that she was late for her Women in Black vigil.

No word yet as to where the happy couple will honeymoon.