Starting from the adopted home base of Killadelphia — city of descending tough guy mayors like Frank Rizzo, MOVEabomber Wilson Goode and, now, raccoon-killer Michael Extermi-Nutter, a city where the pedophile priests and NAMBLA-pamby football coaches roam and the streets overflow with the cheapest narcotics (Philly cheese steaks), a city where the homeless and their outdoor nuisance feedings are now “raptured” out of sight from the brand new Barnes Foundation building and where Christian forgiveness is reserved for dogfighting millionaire quarterbacks (so long as they convert on third and ten) — I drove 2700 miles to San Diego.

The Pennsylvania turnpike, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois were all uneventful. But somewhere in southern Missouri, towering over the puppy mills (and really blossoming in Oklahoma), the Intercontinental Ballistic Crosses (ICBCs) started to appear — gigantic symbols of the Lord, having nothing to do architecturally with the churches they dwarfed, just proudly smiting the earth amid funny church signs and the dubious morality of the “Kum & Go” convenience stores. I imagined that people woke up one morning and found the ICBCs erected overnight, unaware that they were actually defused Russian ordnance from the Cold War. I think when Gorbachev found his marbles and went home, he changed the targeting a few degrees and, in a kind gesture, fired the empty crosses where they would be most appreciated.

Ohio is just as religious as Oklahoma but you won’t see these showy crosses along the highways of the buckeye state. The reason is that Ohio is very poor and if these crosses weren’t secured really well, they’d end up torn apart and sold for scrap or tinkered with in somebody’s barn; some crafty person might take a blow torch and tin snips and fashion them into howling wolves, grizzly bears, soaring eagles, coyotes wearing bandanas and other iconic symbols of American freedom that nobody in work-till-you-drop Ohio has ever actually experienced. Or, whole ICBCs might be laid out in the parking lot of the Caesar Creek Flea Market just like any other self-defense weapon we have a God-given right to carry — whether we can carry it or not. A mechanic from Donnelsville might turn the tiniest ones into formula one crosses and race them at the Kil-Kare Speedway in Xenia. So long Akron Soap Box Derby, hello Crucifix 500.

(It may surprise you to learn that should there ever be a revolution in America, Ohioans will be at the forefront. This is because Ohioans understand that laws are bullshit. The first step of revolution is lawlessness because anything lawful you can do is totally ineffective, and anything effective that you can do will soon be outlawed. For instance, no one in Philly will ever — again — lead a revolution because they all think it’s normal to sit obediently in traffic for two hours. In Ohio, if there’s a wreck on I-70 and people have to sit for longer than ten minutes, you’ll see cars backing two miles down the shoulder to get off at the previous exit or pick up trucks driving over the most broken down fence they can find through somebody’s field. And the cops know to mind their own business which is not the people’s business. “Waiting” is for rude loud REMFs from New Jersey, whose state bird is the tufted nowherefastgoomba. People from New Jersey think they’re whip smart but they don’t know the answers to the simplest questions — like: What’s the difference between a hillbilly, a briar and a briar-hopper?)

But don’t imagine that God is troubled by the uses that Ohioans might find for crosses. God loves Ohio’s hillbillies — that’s why He didn’t ruin our lives with money. I didn’t even know I was a hillbilly till I moved to Philadelphia several years ago. Then I found out I have a drawl and that I operate on “Ohio time,” meaning I’m slow as agave nectar. Apparently, East Coasters can see their entire lives pass before their eyes before I can get the next word out. We Ohioans know that hillbillies, proper, are from Kentucky and we make all kinds of fun of them.

Where does that put Tennessee, you might ask? For the answer, I recommend that you stand high on Route 449, just entering Pigeon Forge, and look at all the booths and shops and stalls and shelves and tables that line both sides of the road for what seems like miles, the people let outside and doing their business on God’s creation, the beautiful junk sale of America all tamped down by a bosomy haze, said to be fog but really just smoke from round the clock gun blasts. Like a lot of sanitized American history, they don’t teach you in school that this area was originally called the Great Gunsmoky Mountains. Then have one more cup of coffee before you go to the valley below, onward to Dollywood where you will bounce off the sweltering human wall paper of sexist t-shirts, rebel flags, hunting caps and, unlike any other amusement park parking lot I’ve ever been in and for no discernible reason, white guys walking around with shotguns and rifles. (It’s OK, Dolly, the Thunderhead coaster makes up for everything.)

What’s Alabama like, you persist in asking? It’s like this: Once, on a roller coaster trip, a friend woke up from a nap and saw I was driving his brand new company car 100 mph in a 70 mph zone. “What the fuck are you doing — slow down!” he shouted. And I said, “Go back to sleep, everybody’s passing me, they’re pissed off I’m going so slow.” See, Alabama might have some revolutionary tendencies.

But I digress. Back to Oklahoma.

Interspersed with the funtasmal play of crosses and Kum & Gos there are also large highway signs noting five Oklahoma people treasures: General Tommy Franks, Toby Keith, Garth Brooks, Will Rogers and Mickey Mantle. (WARNING: two first names = trouble ahead.)

Right away I don’t like these signs because 40% of the people on them either directed (Franks) or vocally supported (Keith) America’s monstrous wars of aggression and racist occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan. I didn’t have a permit to carry my paranoia, negativity and vengefulness into Oklahoma but, being an unlawful Ohioan by birth, I did it anyway, and I found these signs to be jingoistic, probably racist, probably expressing a certain (highly crappy) political viewpoint rather than some innocuous list of meritorious Oklahomans, and all probably geared toward reminding us white people the required every five miles and every five minutes that we’re still on top, goddamit, whether it’s kicking dark-skinned ass across the ocean or making it magically disappear in the “homeland” — like the African-American author of “Invisible Man,” Oklahoman Ralph Ellison, who’s probably in line to get his name on a sign right after a Toby Keith roadie.

I can see Will Rogers being on this list. And Mickey Mantle, too — although if I wanted the greatest American athlete of the previous century, according to a 2001 ABC Wide World of Sports poll, it would be Sac and Fox Nation Jim Thorpe. And although I don’t like “new country” music; I understand putting Garth Brooks up there because, wake up and smell the tofu chicken fried steak (yeah, Brooks and wife Trisha Yearwood are now vegan): Brooks has sold more records than anybody except Elvis and the Beatles — more than Sinatra, Dylan, the Stones and Johnny Cash. But if I chose an Oklahoma musician it would be the communist Woody Guthrie. Brooks (let alone Toby Keith) will never have the influence on other musicians or the country as a whole that Woody Guthrie continues to have. Guthrie wrote the most communistic popular song, “This Land Is Your Land,” that American school children are still joyously belting out, and he’s famous for having a sign on his guitar which read: “This machine kills fascists.” If Gen. Tommy Franks was a troubadour his guitar would say, “This machine kills women and children” and, with every strum, white phosphorus would blow from the hole as he sang his greatest hit, “Lord, I Don’t Do Body Counts.”

So I called the Oklahoma Department of Transportation to find out what’s up with these signs. What I found out is that my carefully considered thesis was wrong because these signs went up in 1994, way before the Bush/Cheney attack on Iraq, and I mean the 2003 George W. Bush/Cheney attack on Iraq, not the 1990-1991 George H.W. Bush/Cheney attack on Iraq which, actually, Tommy Franks was also part of, though not in the “starring” role.

America, I know you can forgive me about being wrong about this because you forgave Condi Rice scaring the bejesus out of you talking about a a nonexistent “mushroom cloud” and Colin Powell talking about Saddam Hussein’s nonexistent weapons of mass destruction and Dick Cheney talking about the nonexistent Saddam/al-Qaeda connection. You know, all the mass murder that your nonexistent empathy leads to.

Still, to show what a tussle God and the Devil go through in Oklahoma I give you, in this corner, ruling class gangsters like General Franks, neo-con CIA spook Jim Woolsey and gay-bashing Family Research Council director Tony Perkins.

But in the other corner, punching way above his weight: a young gay Oklahoma man, a peace hero, a working class hero, the kind of stand up and be counted person that America always says it loves, let’s hear it for Private First Class Braaaaaadley Maaaaaanning who, if he actually did release the classified documents of American war crimes to WikiLeaks, is a great patriot and that most rare specie on earth, an American CITIZEN — someone who believes in an informed and engaged populace, who believes that America’s misleaders should be held accountable and taxpayers should see how our money’s spent, who believes that the Geneva Conventions and the Nuremberg Principles matter more than the emetic decrees of Baracchio Obama whose ears get bigger with every promise he breaks — presumably, all the better to “listen” to us in his panopticon surveillance state. (Right on, Big Brother! Disempower to the sheeple! Gimme five — no, no, hold up, not five years in prison, not five bucks an hour, not five more tours of Ragheadistan, I don’t want your reelection platform, just gimme five — oh, you wouldn’t understand…) And Manning not only believes in being a functioning American citizen but is willing to go to jail for it, possibly for the rest of his life.

(Cartoon intermission. Here’s how fractured this fairy tale is: Baracchio, formed by his creator Goldman “Geppetto” Sachs, has morphed into Dumbo the Republican elephant while Pinocchio at least changed part-way into the Democrat’s symbol, the jackass. Can’t Joe Biden give a blowhardy speech to all the insects on the White House lawn in the hope that a Jiminy Cricket hops forward to give Baracchio a little conscience?)

Contrast Manning’s courage and self-sacrifice with the video game drone killers bombing people from 7,000 miles away or the silence of Baracchio’s vacant liberal lambs, who had such a blast trashing the Texlexic bumpkin (before war crimes were cool), and whose racist floodgates are now officially open to “get tough on” and slaughter people of color around the globe just like their secret idols, the right wing fascists. Manning is not a “good German” — guess we should update this to “good American” — but he’s a great Oklahoman.

To better honor Gen. Tommy Franks I suggest that Oklahoma have a million crime scene silhouettes painted on the roads representing the Iraqis that Franks is partly responsible for killing and erect four million minaret-shaped reflectors along the shoulders representing the Iraqi refugees he helped make. The whole state could be haunted, just like this entire country needs haunted until it stops its savage destruction of other nations. The American military has every advantage in the world but is still getting kicked out of Iraq and Afghanistan, despite trillions spent and despite hundreds of thousands of American soldiers wounded, maimed and mentally destroyed and over 6,400 killed. And Bradley Manning gets put in a cage — this is all that the world needs to know about the in-your-face evil rot that is America. And what have the “good Americans” done — aside from their children baking cookies for the troops in the beginning? Nothing — they’re more immature than their children: they won’t fight the wars, they won’t end the wars, they won’t even pay for the wars — that’s on their kids’ dime. They lost interest in the broken Iraq and Afghanistan toys a long time ago. KMAG YOYO indeed.

Oklahoma has never produced a leader, a president, of the white settler nation of America while Ohio has produced eight of them. And this white settler nation has never had a woman leading it, unless you count Eleanor Roosevelt. Oklahoma, however, has produced the leader of a nation, the Cherokee nation and a woman to boot, Wilma Mankiller. Oklahoma, you have leaders and heroes, maybe you just don’t like their color, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity or political beliefs. Jim Thorpe, Bradley Manning, Woody Guthrie, Ralph Ellison, Wilma Mankiller … shhhhhh. You might as well have roads signs that say: Leaving the MediOKre State — Please Drive Through Like Hell Again.

The real problem with Oklahoma isn’t the ICBCs or the lack of recognition for many of its heroes and leaders. No, the real problem is that Oklahoma conquered the world, starting in the 1930s. I knew the world was conquered, and I unfriended it a long time ago, but I didn’t know exactly how it got conquered until recently.

Back in the 1930s, the zeitgeist was buzzing like flies on shit in Oklahoma. Wiley Post became the first person to fly around the world in 1931 and he designed the pressurized flight suit in 1934 (he later died in the same plane crash as Will Rogers.) And in 1935 electric guitar pioneer Bob Dunn made one of the first recordings (western swing) of the electric guitar for Decca.

And, for our purposes, several Oklahoma visionaries wandered alone in the flat dusty non-wilderness, unknowingly creating a great and powerful new religion that would rapidly eclipse and make all others seem really boring: engineering professors Holger Thuesen and Gerald A. Hale invented the parking meter (1935), Sylvan Goldman, owner of the Oklahoma City Piggly Wiggly supermarket chain, invented the shopping cart (1937) and police officer Clinton Riggs first conceived of the highway yield sign (1939). These prophetic Oklahomans understood that modern Americans and their wheeled contraptions needed to be rounded up, tamed and organized for the coming religion of Stuff — their innovations helped the faithful forage for it more safely, haul it more efficiently and wait our turn for it more fairly. The streets of heaven were to be paved with… more pavement, lots of pavement, and the purpose of life was revealed to be buying and spending and acquiring. Goldman, in particular, stands taller each day because his ingenious shopping cart is now the home on wheels for millions of Americans, but without the pollution and waste of resources associated with a motor home or the upkeep of the stationary kind.

And it all led inexorably to the temples of Oklahoma-based Walmart, the pointy end of late monopoly capitalism’s spear, where the believers, though speaking in tongues, can be understood to say: “I saved 5 cents on the knife used to cut my own throat! Hallelujah!” And if you need further proof that this religion has arrived, (i.e., they’re fighting about it), attend the Black Friday service or the midnight madness prayers where the lumpen shoppetariat tramples and pepper sprays other worshoppers to “save” and get “saved” the most. As a kind of Crackerjack prize, there’s also self-flagellation but it doesn’t happen on the pilgrimage — it happens 30 days later upon opening the mail, at 23% interest compounded anally for however long you can take it.

This land isn’t my land and it’s not Woody Guthrie’s land. Oklahoma, this land really is your land. It’s a Piggly Wiggly world.

I’d like to thank the people at the Oklahoma Department of Transportation who answered my questions about the highway signs, though one did wonder, “Where are you’re going with this, Randy?” As you can see, as with most things in life, there’s never really anything to worry about.

Now, Sam was a bright young man who wanted to work and save money so he could go to school and become an electrician. But the only job open in his small community was at the gas station. So for two years, Sam pumped gas, washed windshields, checked dipsticks and tire pressure, smiled and chatted with all the customers, gave them free drinking glasses when they ordered a fill-up, and was soon known as the best service station attendant in town.

But then the Grand Caliphs of Oil said that Megamania Oil Empire, of which they all had partial ownership, caused them to raise the price of gas.

“We’re paying 39 cents a gallon now,” they cried, “How can you justify tripling our costs?” they demanded.

“That’s business,” said the Chief Grand Caliph flippantly. But, to calm the customer fury, he had a plan. “We will allow you the privilege of pumping your own gas, washing your own windows, checking your car’s dipsticks and tire pressure, and chatting amiably with yourselves,” said the Caliph. “If you do that, we will hold the price to only a buck or two a gallon.”

And the people were happy. All except Sam, of course, who was unemployed.

But times were good, and Sam went to the local supermarket, which was advertising for a minimum wage checkout clerk. For three years, he worked hard, scanning all groceries and chatting amiably with the customers. And then one day his manager called him into the office.

“Sam,” said the boss, “we’re very pleased with your work. You’re fired.” From corporate headquarters had come a decision by the chain’s chief bean counter that there weren’t enough beans for their executives to go to Europe to search for more beans.

“But,” asked Sam, “Who will scan the groceries?”

“The customers will,” said the boss. “We’ll even have a no-hassle machine that will take their money and maybe even give change.”

“But won’t they object to buying the groceries, scanning them, bagging them, and shoving their money into a faceless machine?”

“Not if we tell them that by doing all the work, the cost will be less,” said the manager.

“But it won’t,” said Sam.

The manager thought a moment, and then brightly pointed out, “We’ll just say that the cost of groceries won’t go up significantly if labor costs were less. Besides, we even programmed Canmella the Circuit-enhanced Clerk to tell customers to have a nice day.”

Now others may have sworn, cried, or punched out their supervisor, but this is a G-rated fairy tale, and it wouldn’t be right to leave Sam to flounder among the food. By cutting back on luxuries, like food and clothes, Sam saved a few dollars from his unemployment checks, and finally had enough to go to a community college to learn to become an electrician. After graduating at the top of his class, an emaciated and homeless Sam got a job at Acme Industries.

For nine years, he was a great electrician, often making suggestions that led to his company becoming one of the largest electrical supplies manufacturers in the country. And then one day one of the company’s 18 assistant vice-presidents called Sam into a small dingy office, which the company used for such a day. “You’re the best worker we have,” the AVP joyfully told Sam, “but all that repetitive stress has cut your efficiency and increased our medical costs. In the interest of maximizing profits, we have to replace you.”

“But who can do my job?” asked Sam.

“Not who,” said the manager, “but what. We’re bringing in robots. They’re faster and don’t need breaks, vacations, or sick days. Better yet, they don’t have union contracts.”

“So you are firing me,” said Sam.

“Not at all. We had to let a few dozen other workers go so there would be room for the robots, and we won’t be hiring any new workers, but because of your hard work, we’re reassigning you to oil the robots. At least until we design robots that can oil the other robots.”

For three years, Sam oiled, polished, and cleaned up after the robots. Sometimes, he even had to rewire them. And then the deputy assistant senior director of Human Resources called him into her office.

“No one can oil and polish as well as you can,” she said, but the robots are getting very expensive and we still have several hundred workers who are taking lobster and truffles from the mouths of our corporate executives, “so we’re sending all of our work to somewhere in Asia. Or maybe it’s Mexico. Whatever. The workers there will gladly design and assemble our products for less than a tenth what we have to pay our citizens.”

“You mean I’m fired?!” said a rather incredulous Sam.

“Not fired. That’s so pre-NAFTA. You’ve been downsized.”

“Downsized?!”

“If you want, we can also say you’ve been outsourced. How about right-sized. That’s a nicer word. Would you prefer to be right-sized?”

By now, Sam was no longer meek. He no longer was willing to accept whatever he was told.

“The work will be shoddier,” said Sam. “There will be problems.”

“Of course there will be,” said the lady from HR. “That’s why we hired three Pakistani goat herders to solve customer complaints.”

“Our citizens won’t stand for this,” said a defiant Sam.

“As long as the product is cheaper, our people will gladly go to large non-union stores and buy whatever it is that we tell them to buy.”

And she was right.

“Yeah, I could use a decent vacation,” I replied, figuring he’d pay for both of us since he had just set the world record for the most nose jobs in a 24-hour period.

“What vacation?” he said. “I’m setting up practice.”

“And give up catering to rich people with inflated bank accounts and deflated ethics?”

“Don’t have a choice. I’m getting laid off.”

Comstock had been a rainmaker for the Megabucks Happy Health Care Medical Center for the past decade. There was only one reason I could think of why he’d be laid off.

“Megabucks tired of paying your malpractice insurance?” I asked.

“Not just me,” he said. “Hospital’s laying off most of the staff, making the rest work overtime, and hiring outside contractors. They said it was hard to survive when the profit was down to only 20 or so million a year.”

“I didn’t realize it was that serious,” I said. “You planning to set up private practice to help the poor in Mexico?” I asked admiringly.

“Not a chance! Gonna get rich working for Megabucks!”

“You just said you were laid off.”

“Been laid off in the U.S.,” said Comstock while putting a frozen burrito into the microwave.

“Megabucks/Mexico just hired me. There’s cheaper labor down there.”

“You crazy?” I asked. “You’re the cheaper labor.”

“Obviously you don’t know American business,” said Comstock haughtily.

“Megabucks/U.S. closes its auxiliary operations, and then contracts with Mexican companies for a fifth of the cost in the U.S. They do the work, ship it back to the U.S., and Megabucks bills Blue Cross the full rate as if it was done locally.”

“So where do you fit in?” I asked.

“Just as before. Nose jobs. Breast augmentations. Tummy tucks. All the important medical procedures. But this time, I do it in Cancun.”

“To rich Mexicans,” I said disgusted.

“To rich Americans!” said Comstock. “If they want the best care, they’ll take their private jets to Mexico and then deduct the trip as a necessary business expense.”

“And what about the impoverished and middle-class Americans?”

“If they can sneak across the border, they can also get medical care.”

“What about prescriptions?”

“Megabucks contracted with some of the best drug dealers—I mean pharmacists and chemists—in Mexico. Quality is just as good and it’ll only be four or five times production costs. Unlike the U.S. there’s no TV advertising and six-figure MBAs and lawyers that require drugs to be 30 or 40 times production costs.”

“With prices that low, how do you know there won’t be mass rushes by Americans to grab everything they can?”

“Because there’s security! Every hospital and pharmacy has armed guards with the best automatic weapons smuggled through the God-fearing 2nd Amendment patriotic Southern states.”

“Is Megabucks outsourcing all its operations?”

“Keeping the ER. After tummy tucks and butt lifts, that’s the hospital’s ‘cash cow.’”

“So, then, it’ll have to keep some services like X-Ray and the lab,” I said. “Maybe even a doctor or two.”

“Too expensive,” said Comstock. “Megabucks will hire more residents and foreign-educated doctors, and work them 18 hours a day. More work, less time to complain. Residents will do anything to get experience to pass their boards. May even hire a couple of hospitalists. You know, the ones who graduated at the bottom of their class and can’t even get work in a Free Clinic.”

“I suppose they’ll also do the lab work?” I asked.

“Do you know some of those lab techs are making as much as $30,000 a year! Made sense to lay them off, too.”

“So how will the ER know a victim’s blood chemistry, or if there’s internal injuries?”

“Technology,” said Comstock. “They scan the blood here, and send digital X-Rays to Mexico. Mexican lab technicians—you know, the ones that don’t know about unions and will work for only a few bucks a day—will analyze everything, then text the results back to the U.S.”

“This sounds like it’s not only a way to maximize profits, but also a way to avoid dealing with the President’s health care reform program.”

“Obamacare!” spit out Comstock. “Nothing but socialized medicine.”

“Most countries have forms of socialized medicine,” I countered, “and they not only have good health care but affordable prices to their citizens.”

Comstock put his hands to his ears and began chanting, “We’re Number 1, We’re Number 1.”

“Number 37,” I corrected him. “The World Health Organization ranked the U.S. just below Costa Rico.”

“They’re all Commies,” replied Comstock. “Besides, that study is a decade old.”

“Last year, the independent Commonwealth Fund compared the nations of the United Kingdom against the U.S., and the U.S. ranked seventh of the seven.”

“Yeah, like Americans will go to Canada? It’s covered by snow and run by a queen who can’t even speak English.”

“You and Megabucks are crazy!”

“Possibly,” said Comstock, “but outsourcing is the American way. By the way, do you put ketchup or mustard on a burrito?”

But there I was, last Friday, in this hotel room in Atlanta, a city pretending there’s no Depression, chewing my complimentary morning donut, and Today is telling us about the “new face of American poverty.”

“More than 49 million Americans now live below the poverty line and a number of them like the family you’re about to meet propelled into bankruptcy by a one-two punch of job loss and a catastrophic health crisis.”

Wow! US television finally grabs the Big Issue.

This white suburban family called the Kleins have lost their home to eviction. They’re completely broke, because one of their kids got a tumor in her face. They have no insurance so the $100,000-plus medical bills wiped them out.

They live with neighbors and they hoped to at least get their kids a couple pair of underwear as a Christmas gift.

But if you think America doesn’t give a crap about the cancerous growth of poverty, just keep watching: The Today reporter takes the white family to WalMart where the bubbly journalist gushes, “The wonderful people of WalMart opened up their stores and their aisles and their hearts. The store is your oyster, Michelle!”

Then some WalMartian PR person tells the bankrupt mom to address the issue of long-term unemployment, “Let’s go shopping!”

And you thought America was cold-hearted, just because the Republicans tried to block unemployment insurance this Christmas for three million families.

On their free shopping spree, the Kleins got laptops and a Kindle, and a big-ass TV and all the good things that WalMart can provide.

And if you think WalMart has shown how selfless and caring Americans are, just wait until you find out what the Today show is giving America’s desperate poor: Simply the best-est gift ever …

“We saved the best for last!” The reporter tells the Kleins that NBC is flying them to New York, “to be on the Today show, to be on our set with Matt Lauer and Ann Curry!”

Matt and Ann! Both of them! Well, I bet they wouldn’t do that in North Korea or Sweden! Only in America!

Mr. Klein is so happy he’s meeting Ann that he doesn’t seem care anymore that he lost his job at Ford Motor. He just has his family. In some other family’s house, of course. But that’s a detail.

And if you thought this was just some cheap publicity stunt by WalMart, dig this, Mr. Cynical: WalMart is going to pay for all the Klein’s medical bills for a full year! And to pay for it, WalMart’s 1.4 million employees will not have all their medical bills covered for the year. Now, that’s generosity!

(This heartwarming segment of the Today show about the Klein kids, by the way, is sponsored by — no points for guessing: WalMart.)

But then I thought: wait a minute. What about ObamaCare? Once the plan is in place, no American can be denied insurance, even someone with a tumor in their face.

Americans love to hate ObamaCare. But isn’t that more valuable to the Kleins than a TV screen with no house to put it in?

Now, many of my friends will be surprised to hear me say this, as I’ve been quite skeptical about the accomplishments of the Pope of Hope. But let’s admit that Barack Obama tried to save the Kleins from medical-bill devastation, that he is trying to get them some unemployment insurance, trying (if on sketchy terms) to save the auto industry, all in the face of resistance of America’s hatred of Socialist Government.

Maybe we don’t need Santa Claus. Maybe we need Anti-Claus: A skinny ‘Muslim’ from Kenya squirming down your chimney!

America’s problem seems to be that it can only be cruel 364 days a year. Christmas is that time of year when the United States of Scrooge takes a vacation from heartless profiteering and the nasty joy Americans get, that “I’m-not-one-of-those-losers” frisson.

Listen to Rick and Newt and Mitt and Michele and Ron and what you get is the Great American F***’em! They lost their jobs? F***’em! Their kid has a tumor and they don’t have health insurance? F***’em!

Unless, of course, it’s Christmas and you have to look at the tumor on TV. Then, it’s like, Someone buy them a big-screen television so we don’t feel bad.

Santa’s erstaz elf, Bill O’Reilly, keeps talking about the “War on Christmas.” Because one day a year he has to dress up in Good Will to All Men drag. He can deck his halls with bags of bullshit make-believe kindness.

The rest of the year, he’s jerking off while talking dirty to his horrified female producers and raking in millions from the yahoos who haven’t lost their jobs yet.

So that’s it: for me, no more chestnuts roasting on an open fire. My chestnuts have gone down with my Lehman bonds, anyway. I’m declaring war on Christmas.

Don’t like that, O’Reilly? Then eat my shorts — with cranberry sauce.

Surgery for kids with cancer, a house to live in that’s not a relatives’ basement, and a job making something other than “financial products”… These are rights, not gifts. They don’t come down the chimney, they come from a community that can set aside its bred-in-the-bone meanness for more than one day a year.

And to all a good night.

Merry, um, Festivus, from the Palast Investigative Team.

Bouldergrass had begun his health crusade more than a decade ago when he began reading more than the sports pages of his local newspaper, subscribed to his first magazine, and decided TV news could be informative if it didn’t mention anything about wars, famines, and poverty.

Based on what he read and saw in the media, Bouldergrass moved from smog-bound Los Angeles to a rural community in scenic green Vermont, gave up alcohol and a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit, and was immediately hospitalized for having too much oxygen in his body.

To burn off some of that oxygen, he joined America’s “beautiful people” on the jogging paths where the media helped him believe he was sweating out the bad karma. In less than a year, the karma left his body which was now coexisting with leg cramps, fallen arches, and several compressed disks. But at least he was as healthy as all the ads told him he could be.

To make sure he didn’t get skin cancer from being in the sun too long, he slathered four pounds of No. 35 sun block on his body every time he ran, and went to suntan parlors twice a week to get that “healthy glow” advertisers told him he needed. He stopped blocking when he learned that suntan parlors weren’t good for your health, and that the ingredients in the lotions could cause cancer. So, he wore a jogging suit that covered more skin than an Arab woman’s black chador with veil—and developed a severe case of heat exhaustion.

From ultrathin models and billions of dollars in weight-reducing advertising that told him “thin was in,” he began a series of crash diets. When he was down to 107 pounds, advertising told him he needed to “bulk up” to be a “real man.” So, he began lifting weights and playing racquetball three hours a day. Four groin pulls and seven back injuries later, he had just 6 percent body fat, and a revolving charge account with his local orthopedist.

Several years earlier, Bouldergrass had stopped eating veal as part of a protest of America’s inhumane treatment of animals destined for supermarkets. Now, in an “enlightened” age of health, he gave up all meat, not because of mankind’s cruelty to animals, but because the media revealed that vascular surgeons owned stock in meat packing companies. Besides, it was the “healthy” thing to do.

He gave up pasta when he saw a TV report about the microscopic creepy crawlers that infest most dough.

He gave up drinking soda and began drinking juice, until he read a report that said apple juice had higher than normal levels of arsenic.

He ate soup because it was healthy and so Mmm Mmm Good, until he learned that soup had more salt than Lot’s wife. When he found low-salt soup, he again had a cup a day—until last month when he gave it up because a Harvard study revealed that soup cans contained significant amounts of Bisphenol-A-, which can lead to cancer and heart disease.

For a couple of years, lured by a multi-million dollar ad campaign and innumerable articles in the supermarket tabloids, Bouldergrass ate only oat bran muffins for breakfast and a diet of beta carotenes for lunch, until he found himself spending more time in the bathroom than at work. He eliminated the muffins entirely after reading an article that told him eating oatmeal, bran, and hood ornaments from Buick Roadsters were bad for your health.

Bouldergrass gave up milk when he learned that acid rain fell on to pastures and was eaten by cows. When he learned that industrial conglomerates had dumped everything from drinking water to radioactive waste into streams and rivers, he stopped eating fish. For a while, based upon conflicting reports in the media, he juggled low-calorie, low-fat, and low-carbohydrate diets until his body systems dropped into the low end of inertia.

At the movies, he smuggled in packets of oleo to squeeze onto plain popcorn until he was bombarded by news stories that revealed oleo was as bad as butter and that most theatrical popcorn was worse than an all-day diet of sirloin.

When he learned that coffee and chocolate were unhealthy, he gave up an addiction to getting high from caffeine and sugar, and was now forced to work 12-hour days without any stimulants other than the fear of what his children were doing while he was at work.

Unfortunately, he soon had to give up decaffeinated coffee and sugarless candy with cyclamates since both caused laboratory mice to develop an incurable yen to listen to music from the Grand Funk Railroad.

He gave up pizza when the media reported that certain “health care investigators” claimed pizza was little more than junk food. But, he began eating several slices a day to improve his health when Congress, fattened by lobbyists campaigns, last month declared frozen pizza was a vegetable. He figured it made sense, since three decades earlier the Reagan administration had declared catsup to be a vegetable, and five years ago the Department of Agriculture decided butter-coated french fries were a vegetable.

Left with a diet of fruits and vegetables, he was lean and trim. Until he accidentally stumbled across a protest by an environmental group which complained that the use of pesticides on farm crops was a greater health hazard than the bugs the pesticides were supposed to kill. Even the city’s polluted water couldn’t clean off all the pesticides. That’s also when he stopped taking showers, and merely poured a gallon of distilled water over his head every morning.

For weeks, he survived on buckets of vitamins because the magazines told him that’s what he should do. Then, after reading an article that artificial vitamins shaped like the Flintstones caused dinosaur rot, he also gave them up.

The last time I saw Bouldergrass, he was in a hospital room claiming to see visions of monster genetic tomatoes squishing their way toward him. He was mumbling something about cholesterol and high density lipoproteins. Tubes were sticking out of every opening in his emaciated body, as well as a couple of openings that hadn’t been there when he first checked in.

In one last attempt to regain his health, Bouldergrass enlisted in Michelle Obama’s Let’s Move army. But the only movement he was doing was when the nurses flipped him so he wouldn’t get bed sores.

Shortly before he died, he pulled me near him, asked that I write his obit, and in a throaty whisper begged, “Make sure you tell them that thanks to what I learned from the media, I died healthy.”

“Gas is much more harmful for the environment,” he added. “And, truth be told, lethal injection is a gateway drug.”

Many folks found it humorous, especially the “gateway” drug line.

I was less impressed. But it got me to thinking. Maybe conservatives (and Republicans by association) are more environmentally conscious than we realize.

The old electric chair didn’t actually conserve much energy, and electric shock torture of the order depicted in the Rambo movies was hardly environmentally responsible. But the Bush Administration’s utilization of water-boarding was clearly green. All it required was an old rag (reusable), a metal or wooden plank (also reusable) and several gallons of water and, even if you water-boarded a human being 183 times, it still comprised a diminutive carbon footprint. It was much more eco-friendly than electroshock interrogation.

And consider the yellow cake uranium prevarications that the Cheney branch of the Bush White House pushed to justify invading Iraq. Outright lies require much less manpower and paperwork than pursuing the truth. Think of how many trees Cheney spared.

Imagine the transportation costs the American taxpayers would have incurred if the Bush White House had allowed the CIA to do its job.

Looking back on it, the Bush Administration was much more conservationist than folks realized and the upcoming 2012 election cycle has Republicans taking note. They’re not wasting any energy coming up with new ideas. They’re simply recycling the old ones.

Republicans want a return to the lack of regulations that led to the Wall Street meltdown. They figure if less of us have jobs, less of us will need to drive to work. We’ll save billions in fuel costs and, if our cars remain parked in our driveways, there will be a substantial reduction in carbon emissions.

Republicans want to reinstate the U.S. Military’s Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy. They realize it will significantly reduce the number of trained, qualified servicemen and women serving overseas and, with less qualified personnel in the ranks, there will be additional casualties. This will help mitigate the growing shortage of jobs that face the soldiers coming home from our wars.

Republicans want to restore the Bible in school curriculums. They know deferring to The Word instead of promoting contemporary theories cuts down on the number of textbooks required to educate our children. And with less textbooks and a de-emphasis on intellectual development, competent instructors will be easier to find and cheaper to hire. Sticking closer to the Holy Writ will spare untold swathes of forest and hiring less educated instructors will cut down on all the government funding that’s wasted on “higher” education.

Republicans want to limit the political conversation to their own tried and true talking points. Fox News affords them a captive audience that is practically intellectually catatonic and introducing new ideas or meaningful discussions simply disturb the sediment that insulates their base. Pigeon-holing the debate keeps their conservative environs intact and less vulnerable to de-stabilizing nature of newly introduced theses and the contaminating aspects of broader viewpoints.

And, finally, in perhaps the greatest conservationist and preservationist efforts Republicans have followed through with in decades, they’re working tirelessly to maintain and protect the plunder and privilege of the human subspecies known as the American wealthy.

Fearful that this potentially endangered strata of our citizenry is threatened by the menacing forces of cultural equilibrium and economic fair play, Republicans are organizing filibusters in the U.S. Senate and staging a do-nothing occupation of the U.S. House of Representatives.

Considered en masse, the Republican Party is obviously much greener than we realized.

Of course Republican greenness has more to do with bigotry, ignorance and corporate backers than Mother Nature. But you have to start somewhere.

They are clearly the oak that becomes an acorn.

On a less urgent note, we’ve also lost our “novelty” manufacturing base.  It’s true.  Our plastic, artificial vomit and artificial dog poop are now being produced in Asia.  While some people might greet this news with apathy, I see it differently.  If we’ve already lost our fake vomit and dog poop to foreign manufacturers, how soon before we lose our truck nuts?

My concern isn’t confined solely to the economics.  Obviously, novelty items like plastic vomit and excrement—while venerated and reliable staples of traditional American humor—don’t play a significant role in the marketplace.

Rather, my concern is what the Chinese may think of us as they produce these things.  After all, America’s military aggression and corporate bullying have already saddled us with a fairly negative image in much of the world.  What additional damage will these novelty items do to our reputation?

The following is a dramatization of a conversation between two Chinese assembly line workers, Wong and Chang, employed by a plastics manufacturing company in Shanghai.

Wong:  Have you checked out next week’s production schedule?

Chang:  No, not yet.

Wong:  They’ve got us running two shifts of vomit… then switching over to dog poo.

Chang:  What kind of vomit?

Wong:  One cycle of gritty, two of chunky, one of heavily pebbled.

Chang:  What kind of poo?

Wong:  Medium grain, normal size, light brown.  One cycle only.

Chang (delighted):  Not too shabby.  Should be an easy run. (pauses a moment):  Wong, you’re a smart person.  Have you ever wondered why Americans buy this stuff?

Wong:  They think it’s funny.

Chang:  I don’t get it.  What’s so funny about a mound of dog poo?

Wong:  We shouldn’t concern ourselves with why they buy it.  As long as we get paid to produce it, that’s all we should care about.  Factory jobs aren’t easy to come by.

Chang: (reconsiders)  You’re probably right.  I should be grateful.

Wong: (brightening)  By the way, have you heard the news?  It looks like we’re going to get the truck nuts account.

Chang: (totally clueless)  Truck nuts??

WONG:  Plastic testicles enclosed in a plastic scrotum.

Chang: (genuinely curious)  Are these like… science exhibits?  Are they sold to medical schools?

Wong:  No.  They’re ornaments.

Chang: (stunned)  Ornaments?!?

Wong:  They hang them from the rear bumpers of their powerful, over-sized American trucks.

Chang:  But why on earth would they do that?

Wong:  Apparently, they find it quite hilarious.

Chang: (contemplates it)  I’m surprised.

Wong:  You’re surprised that Americans could be so juvenile, vulgar and self-absorbed?

Chang:  No.  I’m surprised they still make trucks.

With the nation’s unemployment rate hovering about 10 percent, recent high school graduates are escaping reality by going to college, and college grads are avoiding reality by entering grad school. The result is that it now takes a M.A. to become a shift manager at a fast food restaurant.

Colleges have stayed ahead of the Recession by becoming business models, where students are “inventory units,” and success is based upon escalating profit. Increasing the number of incoming units, class size, and tuition, while not increasing teaching and support staff, leads some colleges to believe they are solvent in a leaking economy. Budgets for academics are decreasing; budgets for dorms are increasing. Enrollment in degree-granting institutions is expected to be about 19.1 million in 2012, an increase of about 25 percent from 2000, according to the National Center for Educational Statistics.

Desperate to destroy their image as places of scholarship, colleges are using the 98.6 admissions criteria—admit almost anyone with a body temperature. Colleges may claim they admit only students with at least a 3.0 grade point average, which at some high schools is about half the student body, but it’s likely that students with lower averages aren’t recruited because they’re already working as lab specimens.

Across the nation, Developmental Education classes are increasing, with some departments now within the Top 5 in the college. For those who don’t speak “academicese,” that means more students are in college who have basic readin’, ’riting, and ’rithmetic problems.

Nevertheless, there are still a few hold-outs among colleges where students actually go to study, develop their minds, and hope to make great contributions to society. This, of course, in a declining economy, is not acceptable.

At Neargreat Tech, when the Admissions department failed to increase enrollment because most high school grads didn’t want to be associated with geeks, the President convened a Judiciary Review Board to reduce the college’s academic reputation. First in was the class valedictorian.

“Bennish, this is the fifth time this semester you’ve been caught sneaking into the library. This administration just doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“Sir, maybe I could increase my community service and read books to the ill and illiterate.”

“Why can’t you just go to our football games Saturday afternoons, then party and get drunk like a normal college student?”

“Because, sir, we don’t have a football team.”

“Then start one! If it’s as bad as it could be, you’ll have an excuse to drink. Next!”

Next in was a student accused of disturbing the peace.

“Rachmaninoff, your advisor says you’re a pretty good musician, but you only want to play the classical stuff. We’re assigning you to the marching band.”

“But, Dean, I play the piano.”

“Great! The band needs a pianist.”

“Sir, it might be difficult to carry a piano along Broadway. Besides, there are only 20 members in the band anyhow.”

“Even better! Pick an instrument. Banjo. Double bass. Electric guitar. They need everything! Dismissed!”

Next to be called to face a disciplinary hearing was Schopenhauer. “You were seen lying on the grass beneath a tree in the quad,” said the president. “The campus police claim you were thinking. We should give you an opportunity to defend yourself against this egregious accusation. What exactly were you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“That’s outrageous! You know we don’t like our students to think. What’s your major?”

“Philosophy, sir.”

“That’s the problem,” the president declared. “Since you’re only a freshman, and probably don’t know better, I’ll be lenient. You are sentenced to a day of writing graffiti on the university’s bathroom walls.” He paused a moment, then snapped, “And don’t let me catch you writing anything intelligent on those walls!”

Later that afternoon, the president met with his staff.

“This isn’t going to work,” said the dejected president. “We can’t catch every practicing scholar on campus. They’re just snickering at our rules. If we can’t stop education, then we won’t be able to raise our enrollment and get performance bonuses.”

That’s when Winslow, a newly-appointed deputy assistant dean spoke up. “Perhaps we need to look elsewhere for our inspiration. What is it that almost every college but ours has?” He didn’t wait for a response when he declared the college needed fraternities and sororities.

“How do we know the students will even want to participate?” asked the president. “Most of our students have no desire to participate in a system that humiliates them, strips them of their individuality, and causes them to walk six abreast down a narrow street while singing off-key.”

Perhaps,” suggested the deputy assistant dean, “we can tap our reserve fund and build a couple of fraternity houses, maybe a sorority house or two.”

“Will that guarantee we’ll get more common students to raise the enrollment?”

“If you build it, they will party,” said the deputy assistant dean.

“Winslow may have a bright idea here,” said the president, who immediately promoted him to vice-president of academics and parties.

I walked straight ahead, looking neither right nor left in a darkened alley illuminated by a half-moon.

“Pssst.”

I quickened my pace, but there was no avoiding the shadowy figure.

“Ain’t gonna harm ya. Jus’ wanna sell ya somethin’.”

I hesitated, shaking. Stepping in front of me, he shoved a hotdog under my nose. “Ten bucks each,” he whispered ominously through his throat.

“Ten bucks?!” I asked, astonished at the cost.

“You want it or not?”

With Michele Obama (who chose to attack obesity rather than poverty, worker exploitation, or even hunger and malnutrition), supported by publicity-hungry legislators, hotdogs were the latest feel-good food to come under assault. A medical association whose members are vegans had spent $2,750 to place a billboard message near the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. The picture showed four grilled hot dogs sticking out of a cigarette box that had a skull and crossbones symbol on its face. An oversized label next to the box informed motorists and fans of the upcoming Brickyard 400, “Warning: Hot dogs can wreck your health.” The Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine claimed that just one hot dog eaten daily increased the risk of colorectal cancer by 21 percent.

The Committee isn’t the only one destroying Americans’ rights to eat junk food. The Center for Science in the Public Interest, which seems to come up with a new toxic food every year, once declared theatre popcorn unhealthy. Many schools banned soda machines. Back in 2011, McDonald’s reduced the number of french fries in its Happy Meal and substituted a half-order of some abomination known as apples. Even cigarette company executives, trying to look professorial at a Congressional hearing, once said that smoking cigarettes wasn’t any worse than eating Twinkies. However, smoking a Twinkie could cause heart and lung diseases, cancer, and diabetes.

Nevertheless, in Michele Obama’s second term as First Anti-Fat Lady, I was desperate for my daily fix of hot dogs, and my would-be supplier knew it. I leaped at my stalking shadowy figure with the miracle junk.

“Not so fast!” he growled, pulling the hotdog away. “Let’s see your bread.”

“I don’t have any bread,” I pleaded. “Not since a zoologist at Penn concluded that hummingbirds that ate two loaves of bread a day got constipation.”

“Not that bread, turkey! Bread! Lettuce!”

“I haven’t eaten lettuce in three years since the government banned it for having too many pesticides, and the heads that remained were eaten by pests.”

The man closed his trench coat and began to leave.

“Wait!” I pleaded, digging into my pockets. “I’ve got change.”

He laughed, contemptuously. “That’s not even coffee money.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” I mumbled. “Not since the government arrested Juan Valdez and his donkey for being unhealthy influences on impressionable minds.”

I grabbed for his supply of hotdogs, each disguised in a plain brown wrapper, each more valuable than a banned rap record. He again pulled them away.

“I ain’t no Salvation Army. You want ’dogs, you pay for ’dogs. I got thousands who will.”

“I need a fix. You can’t let me die out here on the streets.”

“If it was just me, I’d do it. But there’s the boys. They keep the records. If I give you a ’dog and bun, and don’t get no money, they’ll break two of my favorite fingers. I don’t cross nobody. And I don’t give it away.”

“Please,” I begged. “I need a ’dog. It’s all I have left to live for. I don’t care about colorectal cancer. Without hotdogs, my life is over. You can’t let me die out here on the streets.” He shrugged, and so I suddenly got bold. “Give me a ’dog,” I demanded, “or I’ll tell everyone you have the stuff. You won’t be able to meet the demand. The masses will tear you apart like a plump frank.”

“You wouldn’t do that to a guy just trying to make a buck, would you?”

“Two ’dogs with mustard and onions, and I keep my mouth shut. No ’dogs and I scream like a fire engine.” He had no choice.

Walking away, he stopped, turned back, and called after me—“Tomorrow. This corner. This time. Two ’dogs. Twenty bucks. I’ll see you every night.”

I didn’t reply. He knew he had me.

But, now and then, it’s hard to find an assortment of adrenaline-enhanced stories. And so it was that WOW-TV’s panicked station manager met with his news director late one afternoon to go over the final line-up for the 6 O’clock news, which, with few variants would be the same news the station would run in its “expanded news coverage” shows over the next 24 hours. The station manager wasn’t happy.

“What do you mean leading off the news with a report that some jokers at the Public Health Service found the cure for AIDS? Weren’t there any accidents? Fires? Murders!”

“Sorry, Boss, there’s nothing out there.”

“NOTHING?! ‘Nothing’ as in ‘no accidents,’ or ‘nothing’ as in ‘You’re about to get a job at Kwik-E-Mart’?!”

“Boss, we really tried. I have five camera crews running around right now.”

“Think you can get two of them to run into each other? We’d pay the hospital bills.”

“Boss, don’t you remember? The union made us agree to a six-month moratorium on stories that involve us maiming our crews just for the sake of ratings?”

“Some union,” the station manager huffed. “Doesn’t even want its members to get more air time.”

“It’s only for six months,” said the news director. “After that, maybe we could cut the brake linings on Unit 3 and have Unit 4 cover it. But for right now, the news scanner is dead.”

“What happened to that fatality on Honeysuckle?”

“By the time we scrambled the chopper, the drivers had exchanged insurance numbers and left.”

“Left!?” thundered the station manager. “No one leaves when there’s a camera crew on the way!”

“Best we could figure out, it was just a few paint scratches.”

“Any of the cars red? If you got there faster, it might have looked like blood. Check the cops again. They might be covering up something.”

“Sorry, Boss. Even Philly’s not reporting any murders in the past 24 hours.”

“Then go out and shoot someone!” the station manager demanded.

“Sorry, Boss, I can’t do that.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said the station manager. “Tell Susie Sweetwater to do it. Her ratings are down. This should help.”

“Susie’s in the middle of her reading class right now, and you know how she hates to be disturbed when she’s learning new words.”

“Then Heartthrob! Audiences salivate whenever he’s on. The public would back him even if he had assault weapons and made welsh rarebit out of the Easter Bunny.”

“It’s an hour until air,” the news director reminded the station manager. “Hearthrob’s already in Makeup. They’re darkening his hair tonight.”

“Celebrities!” shouted the station manager. “Audiences love train wrecks, and celebrities do it better than anyone! Find me Lindsay Lohan!”

“We have two crews on her now,” said the news director, “but all she’s doing is drinking and partying. Besides, we’ve done that story five times this month.”

“What about the Jersey Shore morons.”

“They’re currently destroying what’s left of the Roman civilization, and we can’t afford to send a crew.”

“Get me a fire! Forest. Trailer. Stove. I don’t care!” the station manager demanded, smashing his coffee mug against his desk, and cutting his wrist. “BLOOD!” he shouted. “We have blood!”

“It’s only a scratch,” said the news director.

“It’s blood! And it’s good for a grabber. Grab a producer. Come in with an extreme close-up full-frame, and then pull back to a medium shot. Dissolve to some of the footage of the Vancouver fans rioting when their team lost the Stanley Cup. Here’s your lead: Violence in Canada leads to blood-letting in America.” He paused a moment. “Make sure you run teasers on this every five minutes.”

Yo! A-man! Evie? Where U at?—G-D

Behind the bushes, Big Guy!—E.

What the? U hiding?—G-D

We’re naked, Lord!—A.

Whoa! Who tole u u were naked?—G-D

Duh! I thought u knew everything?—E.

Enuf wid u! Who tole u?—G-D

The serpent bid me eat of the Tree of Knowledge!—E.

An u listened to that reptile scumbag? Not to Me?—G-D

She made me do it, Lord! Don’t smite me!—A

Adam, u twirp!—E

What have U wrought, Lord?—A

OK! That does it! Outa here! Hit the road!—G-D

What a Schlimazel!—E.

I saw that!—G-D

Where do we go, Lord?—A

Follow the Yellow Brick Rd, jerk-off!—G-D

She made me do it!—A.

Kiss-off! Both of you’s! Don’t let the primrose door bump ur ass!–G-D

Please forgive me, Lord.—A.

Fa-ged-da-boud- it!—G-D

U want the Blackberry back, Lord?—A.

Shove it where the sun don’t shine!—G-D!

2. Romeo and Juliet—The Balcony Scene

Romey? O! Romey? O! Where? For? RU?—Julie.

Am climbing the ivy now!—R.

OMG! It’s poison ivy!—J.

Now you tell me?—R.

Take me. I’m urs!—J.

Soon as I get there!—R.

Oops! Wait on balc! Mom’s at the door!—J.

Bring some calamine lotion, will ya?—R.

         (After 10 minutes…)

Romey? O! Romey? O! Where? For? RU?—J.

Tired of waiting! Maybe next time! Hugs!”—R.

3. Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton

Liar!—AB

Blackguard!—AH

Federalist!—AB

Republican!—AH

Royalist!—AB

Democrat!—AH

English banker!—AB

French banker!—AH

Ur mama wears round-heeled combat boots!—AB

My father can tar n feather ur’n!—AH

Ur’n?—AB

Yeah!—AH

In ur dreams!—AB

In urs!–AH

Up urs! U dont even have a father, u Carib bastid!–AB

I’ll kill u 4 that!–AH

Not if I kill u first!—AB

Yeah?–AH

Yeah!–AB

4. Abe Lincoln at Gettsyburg

(Speaking…) “4 score & 7 yrs ago. …”

U R SOOOOO HOTT!—a fan.

Where RU?—Honest Abe

In the crowd. Pink bonnet!—a fan

I see u now! Wow! Catch me after the speech!– AL

Please wear ur hat!–me

You like hats? AL

I like men with hats! And from here, urs looks very big!

R we talking about hats?

Is the Pope Jewish?

HAHAHAHAHA!

5. Buddha at the Deer Park in Benares

So that’s the bottom line: Life is suffering. … Questions?—B

Sir. … —Disciple 1

Shoot!–B

Does “Being” precede “Non-being”? Or vice-versa?—D1

How should I know?–B

Master…, How shall we overcome suffering?—D2

Follow the 8-Fold Path!—B

What happens when we die?—D3

The condors eat you.–B

Is sex with women OK?—D4

Most of the time.–B

Can money buy happiness?—D5

Enuf money–yes. 2 much—no!–B

How do we know when we have enuf?—D6

That’s the problem.–B

“Got a new hobby?” I asked from a puddle of water that I assumed was what was left of my body.

“Hobby, nothing!” shouted Marshbaum over the noise. “This is my path to fame and fortune.”

“Every one of your fame-and-fortune paths have ended in a cul-de-sac,” I reminded him. “You scamming the public into believing that slops of glazed clay dipped into leftover house paint are the last sculpture of a dying genius?”

“They’re cookie jars,” said Marshbaum wounded.

“Still looks like schlock to me,” I suggested.

“Work with me on this,” Marshbaum commanded, “it could result in a column for you.”

So I played straightman while Marshbaum threw pots together. “Who,” I asked skeptically, “is going to buy ersatz cookie jars?”

“Corporations,” he replied smugly.

“For gifts?”

“For receipts. Taxpayers keep their receipts in cookie jars,” Marshbaum explained, “so why not corporations? It’ll help them avoid paying any taxes. It’s easy. It’s simple. It’s—”

“Probably illegal.”

“It’s in the Tax Code,” said Marshbaum. “Individuals pay; corporations don’t.”

“I doubt the IRS Code says anything like that.”

“There are four million words in the IRS Code,” said Marshbaum. “Lower-class and middle-class Americans get a few thousand of those words. The rest of the code is a roadmap to help the wealthy and their corporations avoid paying taxes.”

“The IRS encourages corporations to cheat?”

“No, Congress does that. It writes the code to give rebates, tax deferments, subsidies, and all kinds of tax shelters that only the wealthy and their corporations can take advantage of. It’s just a way to reward their friends.”

“But, it’s the people who vote for their representatives,” I said naively.

“You think some homeless vet can afford to donate to Sen. Sludgepump’s campaign? You think Rep. Bilgewater even listens to the opinions of the impoverished and disenfranchised? Why do you think the Republicans want to cut into Medicare and Medicaid?”

“To balance the budget?”

“Because, Ink Breath, the rich don’t need those programs. That’s also why they want to cut funding for public education. The rich can afford private schools. The poor can’t. Besides, you can’t have an educated population of middle-class citizens. They might do something un-American, like actually learn something about the issues.” The issue, said Marshbaum, slinging clay and getting high on pot fumes, is that Congress allows the rich to realize their dreams that greed is not only good, it’s encouraged.

Marshbaum explained that a Government Accountability Office analysis showed that almost three-fifths of all American-based corporations pay no federal taxes. The GAO study didn’t identify individual companies. Marshbaum, with the help of the Securities and Exchange Commission and Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.), did.

Pretending that the international crisis-of-the-week has led to the highest gas prices in years, the oil companies—smirks of greed tucked neatly into their wallets—made record profits, paid no taxes, and even received rebates and refunds from the IRS. Exxon Mobil made $19 billion in profits in 2009, paid no taxes, but received a $156 million rebate. Chevron made $10 billion, paid no taxes, and received a $19 million refund. ConocoPhillips during a three year period had a $16 billion profit, paid no taxes, and received a $451 million tax break. Valero Energy had $68 billion in sales, and a $157 million tax refund.

General Electric had a $26 billion profit in five years, and a $4.1 billion refund. Boeing, tucked into bed with a $30 billion Defense Department contract, got a $124 million refund to sleep better

Even those that received taxpayer-supported bailouts, after being a major cause of the sub-prime housing debacle, made profits, paid seven-figure executive bonuses, and received refunds. Bank of America scammed the people for a $1 trillion bailout, made a $4.4 billion profit, and received a $1.9 billion refund. CitiGroup, with a $2.5 trillion bailout, paid no taxes on a $4 billion profit. Goldman Sachs and Carnival Cruises were model corporate citizens by paying all of 1.1 percent taxes. Goldman Sachs had a $2.3 billion profit on an $800 billion bailout; Carnival, which took passengers and the taxpayers on a cruise, made $11 billion in profit over five years.

“Assuming everything you say is true, how does your overpriced crock pot cookie jar allow the rich to cook the books to avoid paying taxes?”

“Because it comes with extras,” said an enthusiastic Marshbaum. “With every 25 jars, you get a scanner and software that I created. All you have to do is scan the receipts, and my patent-pending pot ware zooms through the receipts to match the tax code and declare that the rich guy and his even richer corporation are tax-exempt.” The best part, said Marshbaum, is that corporations will be able to lay off thousands of six-figure income CPAs in order to maximize their profits.

“But wouldn’t that just increase the problem we already have with unemployment?” I asked.

“Not when the accountants and auditors—the ones who know all the corporate secrets—realize that the government pays 15 to 30 percent of all money it collects from whistleblower tips. They may never have to work again.”

“You’re brilliant,” I said commending my pot throwing friend. “Just brilliant.”

Everyone agrees he’s a bad guy. Paul Wolfowitz in the Wall Street Journal lists dozens of good reasons why the U.S, should intervene to unseat this nut case dictator. What he doesn’t say is why he and his neo-con cronies didn’t do the job themselves while they held power and were busy invading other Islamic countries. Instead, Dubya and company – including the Wolfman – removed the U.S. sanctions against Ghada… Kad…. Libya.

Thanks, Wolfie. You can go back under your rock now, along with Scooter and Rummy.

White House Press Secretary Jay Carney says President Obama is not likely to make any pronouncements on Libya. No hope, no change. Reagan bombed Moammar’s compound in 1986, but that only killed a bunch of other people and didn’t really shake any sense into Guh-Daffy.

It’s time to offer the Libyan strongman an honorable option, a way out that saves face for him, saves the lives of his countrymen and saves the U.S. what it cares about most: money. Let’s invite Guh-Daffy to enjoy a safe life of exile – along with any other former U.S.-supported tyrants of the Middle East – like Hosni Mubarak, Abdullah of Jordan or any of the rest.

We could even construct a Middle Eastern theme park for them, in Texas, where they could continue to rule over simulacra of their former domains and be visited by dignitaries like ex-president George W. Bush, who could pretend he was traveling to foreign lands again, instead of being confined to the USA under threat of indictment abroad for human rights violations. They could even have some oil wells. Mubarak could still reign over “Little Egypt” and Kah-Daffy could pretend to resist regular U.S. Marine invasions of “the shores of Tripoli,” the way pirates fight at certain hours outside Treasure Island in Las Vegas.

While we’re at it, we could relocate Israel – the entire country and population – to the Texas panhandle. We could reconstruct the Holy Land there, fly it piece by piece from its current location like Hearst did with San Simeon. Expensive, yes, but cheaper in the long run. Then we could bomb the original into dust to prevent the Israelis from being tempted to return “home.”

Boy, would that solve a lot of heartbreak. It would drop the level of tension dramatically in the Middle East and raise the I.Q. of the Lone Star state by quanta. It’s a win-win.

You think these plans are grotesque and immoral? Current U.S. foreign policy in the region is much much worse. Future visitors to such a Middle Eastern theme park would find it as incredible as the Creation Museum, only with less attractive, much deadlier, dinosaurs.

But some politicians, apparently feeling a need to make sure their home base knows they aren’t weak on Communism, have called him a dictator, gangster, and emperor. Very few have spoken out about American-owned companies downsizing and outsourcing everything to China from toys and clothing to book printing and building materials.

Evolutionary anthropologists speculate that clothes (i.e., the furs of animals) were first worn during early man’s northward migration from the plains of what is present-day Libya, to the colder climates of present-day Europe. While clothing was originally adopted as protection—to provide warmth—the notion of garments providing “modesty” soon followed.

And unlike the evolution of, say, horticulture or weaponry (where clubs evolved into spears, and spears evolved into bows and arrows, etc.), the concept of modesty didn’t evolve. It arrived abruptly and fully developed. Either you believed your genitals needed to be covered or you didn’t.

Also, it did not begin en masse. Arguably, the concept of modesty was introduced by the actions of one person, in one specific place, at one point in time.

The following is a dramatization of that event.

TIME: Summer, 110,000 years ago. Midday.
PLACE: The plains of present-day Libya.
CAST: Gort, Urk and Kril, three Neolithic men, cave dwellers.
SCENE: Urk and Kril are waiting outside Gort’s cave, casually talking. Both men are naked.

URK: I heard you captured a jybiao yesterday.

KRIL: Yes.

URK: Did you eat it?

KRIL: Yes.

URK: I would like to capture a jybiao today. (intently) Because I would like to eat it.

KRIL: Yes.

(GORT emerges from his cave, wearing a crude form of underwear. URK and KRIL stare at the garment in amazement.)

URK: (pointing) Gort….what is that?

GORT: Something I made.

(long pause)

URK: (curious) What purpose does it serve? (gestures toward the sky) Is it not a hot day?

GORT: (acknowledging) Yes, it’s hot.

KRIL: Yes.

URK: (pressing him) Then why do you wear it?

GORT: (carefully) I wear it because…. (self-consciously) ….I don’t want anyone to see my hrindal.

(another long pause)

URK: (confused) But why don’t you want anyone to see your hrindal?

GORT: I can’t explain why. It just seems wrong.

URK: (smiles) We all have hrindals, Gort. We know what a hrindal looks like and what it is used for.

KRIL: (examines his own hrindal) Yes.

GORT: This isn’t about what it looks like or what it is used for. It’s about….not wanting people to see it. (uncomfortable) I must leave now. (walks away)

URK: (after thinking about it) Maybe Gort is right….maybe we shouldn’t be showing our hrindals. Maybe it’s best to keep some parts of our bodies covered. Maybe only our wives should see our hrindals. And maybe only we should see their yonis.

KRIL: Yes.

[end]

Beginning in prehistoric times the pursuit of modesty followed a fairly straight trajectory. It did so all the way until the middle of the 19th century, when photography was introduced in Europe. This new technology ushered in an era of so-called “reverse-modesty,” as the human body (particularly the female body) now began to be photographed wearing no clothes.

Moreover, as photography continued to improve and proliferate, nude pictures and depictions of explicit sexual acts became more and more available, culminating in the explosion of Internet pornography that we see today. Indeed, hardcore pornography is now ubiquitous. It’s found everywhere in the world. Except Libya.

Admittedly, mistakes have been made.  I am not perfect.  I was brought up to believe in two slogans:  Greed Is Good, and Buyer Beware.  If ambition is a crime, then I plead guilty.  If providing for your family is a crime, I plead guilty.  If fraud and embezzlement are crimes, I plead guilty to 11 federal counts, and nolo contendere to 44 others.  Please bring me a full pardon.  I’m an old man.  Don’t let me die in prison.

Sincerely,
Bernard Madoff

Dear Santa,

This Christmas, all we ask is that you bring us President Obama’s brain in a glass jar.  We already have his heart and balls.

Yours truly,
The Republican Party

Dear Santa,

I have been a good boy this year.  Let me clarify the truth value of that statement.  It falls within the standard deviation and generally accepted parameters of “good: and “bad” (with allowances made for situational ethics, unexpected opportunities, and circumstances beyond my control). While I’m rich, famous and adored by people who have no reason to even like me, I am now very bored.  Please bring me a new career.

Sincerely,
Alan Greenspan

To Whom It May Concern,
cc:  North Pole trade representatives
cc:  Santa, elves, helpers

I’ve been advised to contact your team.  Not that we’re ungrateful, but we need more.  More of everything.  While the voters, the Congress and the Supreme Court have all done their part to reward Big Business, we need more.  Pluto may no longer be a planet, but plutocracy is still the name of the game — if you get my drift.  Let’s arrange a meeting.

Regards,
Thomas Donohue
President and CEO, U.S. Chamber of Commerce

Dear Santa,

Like all good Americans who want to see their country remain strong and liberty ring out its proud name for all to help keep us free in order to refudiate the lies of our enemies and the mainstream media.  Please bring my family prosperity.  Do I consider you a Socialist because you’re a foreigner who encourages people to rely on free gifts?  You betcha.

In Freedomship,
Sarah Palin

Santa,

I need a favor, and I don’t want to hear any happy horseshit about who’s been “naughty or nice.”  My kids want presents.  And even though I can afford to buy them any fucking thing they need, they want Santa to do it.  Any objections you have, you can stick up your ass.  How do we make this happen?  Get back to me ASAP.

Rahm Emmanuel

Dear Brother Claus,

This year I’m asking that you bring U.S. workers the gift of job security, livable wages, and decent benefits.  It would mean a lot.  Because most of your toys are made in China, I was reluctant to write you.  But you’re our last hope, Santa.  The Democrats have warned us to keep away.  They don’t want to “spook the market.”  Which means the American worker is now on his own.  Please do what you can.  Merry Christmas.

In Solidarity,
Richard Trumka
President, AFL-CIO

Dear Santa Claus,

I assume you’re a Jew, and that you’re willing to help other Jews.  My country needs your assistance.  Although we are surrounded by hostile neighbors who wish to annihilate us, much of the world still blames Israel.  They call us Zionists.  Could you put in a good word for us?  Tell people we want peace.  Tell them we want to live in harmony.  Tell them also that we never forget, that if they don’t heed your words, we will learn their identities and hunt them down.

Respectfully,
Benjamin Netanyahu
Prime Minister

All the military brigs and stockades are filled to overcrowding with such disorderly service -men and -women, but the number of offenders is so vast that the services cannot confine the entire population of “sexual orientation mutineers” (SOMs), as the top brass have dubbed them. This “purple passion military awakening,” as advocates from national LGBT organizations have labeled this phenomenon, is a surprise to everyone and has instantly undone ongoing military operations.

The obvious problem is that as openly gay soldiers, sailors, airmen and airwomen are deemed unfit for the U.S. military (because of DADT), the services now find themselves without personnel to implement the many campaigns being waged. In frantic emergency meetings at the Pentagon, the Joint Chiefs and the Secretary of Defense are struggling through what is reported to be acrimonious debate to arrive at a consensus on what to do.

One option advanced by fiscal conservatives is to proceed immediately with mass discharges of current military personnel (which these conservative advisors recommend be “dishonorable” so as to dramatically reduce the future cost of veterans’ benefits) and then try to quickly recruit and train a new mass of acceptably ‘gayless’ — or at a minimum, undetectably gay — soldiers, sailors, airmen and airwomen.

This tack is seen as too damaging to military readiness, and the continuity of military operations, by liberal military advisors who instead recommend the issuance of a general letter of reprimand to be inserted in current servicemen and servicewomen’s personnel files, with a penalty of the forfeiture of one week’s pay, and then offering each SOM service person an otherwise clean record and elimination of any pending charges (for nonviolent offenses, including insubordination) in exchange for an immediate return to duty.

The proponents of this liberal approach counter the howls of conservative protest that it is “a pusillanimous pandering to prurient pilfering of patriotic pulchritude” because it is not just a complete negation of the existing DADT policy, but its active antithesis. This liberal approach would accept openly gay troops henceforth. The popular advocates of this policy tout it as “pink patriotism” while the enraged opponents deride it as “poisonous pansy-ism.”

While the policy debate rages, U.S. military operations around the globe are in abeyance, and one immediate consequence of this lull is a dramatic drop in both military and civilian casualties in the various war zones and occupation zones manned (and ‘womanned’) by U.S. forces. Such casualties as have occurred this week seem to be simply due to the usual types of household and road accidents, and not armed conflict.

Unless the problem is solved quickly, the wars in Afghanistan and elsewhere will not be able to proceed, and the entire thrust of U.S. foreign policy will collapse amid a hail of ridicule from around the world. The President warned that unless the U.S. military can overcome “this pink tide of emotional pacifism and interpersonal distraction” that “clouds our national resolve to maintain the rigor of our thrusts in many sensitive vital areas,” the United States “will disappoint our many partners, who want us behind them” in their struggles “to secure a satisfying state.”

Despite such concern, the collapse of U.S. war-fighting efforts has received a worldwide happy reaction. A spokesman for the U.S. State Department dismisses this initial overseas positive reaction as “no doubt due to a lack of understanding about the true meaning of the situation, and on sober reflection foreign governments and populations will soon realize how dire the situation will be for them unless the U.S. military can return to its traditional role and stabilizing activities around the world.”

The Israeli government as well as a number of Kings and presidents of nations in the Middle East echoed this concern, pointing to it as “the major security issue” for their administrations, though the government of Iran and the general popular sentiment “on the street” throughout the region remained “rapturously gay” on the subject, as characterized by the Iranian press.

In a recording sent to Arab language media, a spokesman for Al Qaeda said that their franchises would certainly be on the lookout for any “homo-erotic infection of our cadres by the degenerate Crusader occupiers” nearby, and they would be quick to behead any Al Qaeda member who exhibited “this disease from the West.” A Tea Party congressional member of the Military Affairs Committee, commenting on the Al Qaeda communiqué, agreed with the idea claiming “it would do a world of good for the U.S. military to enforce a similarly high standard of moral discipline.” However, a recent poll of likely U.S. voters shows them to be cool to the idea of firing squad executions for military personnel court-martialed for purple passion mutineering (PPM), with 49% opposed, 34% in favor and 17% undecided.

The purple passion pacifism (3P) crisis that has collapsed U.S. war-fighting capability is still unresolved tonight, and the world waits with bated breath to see what will transpire. Never has the fate of the world been so precipitously punctuated by such a precarious period pendulous with perilous possibilities. Professor Algernon Illingworth, a retired Oxford don and aging classicist, quipped to British television reporters that we were “witnessing an inversion of Aristophanes’ Lysistrata.”

It was later reported that Illingworth was placed on a “no fly” list by U.S. anti-terrorism agencies, and a search was initiated for the operative code-named “Aristophanes Lysistrata” (dubbed “A-List” by the CIA, and who has not yet been identified but is expected to be detected soon and tracked by anti-terrorist imaging from space satellite, ATISS). Once identified, A-List’s web-purchasing accounts will be blocked to thwart terrorist activity. The work of freedom never rests.