The Umpire Has No Clothes

by Walter Witty

  Now that you understand the patent leather Italian shoe connection, and why Walter insists I wear stained sneakers, I shall conclude this important blasphemy with a test to verify whether you have the mutant SPORTS GENE or not, (and so do care a flying fry bread Frisbee.)

  THE TEST: Why are so many men obsessed with scoring against the opposite (i.e. opposing) sex? According to Dr. Alfred Hoffstetter of the University of Phoenix Psychology and Marketing Department, it has long been known that “men are essentially hunter-gatherers conditioned to bring back the bloody carcasses and shrunken heads of their neighbors so that their women have something to cook while they watch March Madness, (which, to them, was wildebeests crossing the Serengeti Plain.) This really hasn’t changed since cave man days, although back then the TVs consisted of sand pits they drew game diagrams on with long sticks. Anyway, what’s changed in our understanding is that the Y chromosome explains why men end up at the Y after losing everything—including their wives—gambling on games. And, of course, we already know why women are obsessed with money. . . because they have to raise their offspring alone while the men are selling crack to their fellow Knicks fans down at the Y. And this is all because of the twisted proclivities well known to reside on chromosome X. Men born without the Sports Gene end up either becoming billionaire geeks or philosophers or scientists or losers. Sad for the women is that, again, they are attracted to the wrong men, and end up alone and getting fat on chocolate Haagen-Dazs. Which is all documented, by the way, in a study slapped onto a military appropriations bill by an obese Senator wearing a Nike cap.”

  To determine if you have the sports gene, answer the following questions:

  1) Would you give up one dollar in order to make an unknown sports star one million dollars richer? (Neither you nor him would know the details.)

  2) Ten dollars?

  3) Would you give up $20 if you learned it was your favorite player?

  4) Would you give up $100 if he would learn it was because of you?

  5) Would you give up one dollar if you learned it was Tiger Woods?

  6) Hitler’s descendant?

  7) Would you give up $1000 to make George Clooney a million dollars richer, and he invited you to dinner for tips on being like him? (His girlfriend absent.)

  8) Girlfriend present?

  9) Would you pay $1000 to date Clooney’s girlfriend? (Him absent.)

  10) Would you pay Lloyd Blankfein, CEO of Goldman Sachs, $1000 (in extra taxes) to make him tax exempt? (Oh wait, you’re already doing that.)

  RESULTS: To determine if you have the sports gene, answer this question: Did you take this test? If yes, you have the sports gene.

  THE PENTAGON PAPERS: Censored Video & War Gaming Cables

  (THIS PART OF THE BOOK DEEMED A THREAT TO NATIONAL SECURITY AND DELETED BEFORE DOWNLOAD TO WITTYLEAKS)

  CHAPTER 664: Witty Wiki

  “Who is it this time, Mildred?”

  “Trout World is out here with a Mr. Ushisi. Claims he caught a 22 pound steelhead in a stream that feeds into Lake Superior.”

  “Oh yeah? What happened to it?”

  “Says a bear got it, ripped it right off the scales.”

  “That’s a good one, Mildred. Show them in.”

  Probably think they can bluff their way into a cover story by legitimizing it with a polygraph test. Well, we’ll see about that.

  “Mr. Witty? This is Mr. Ushisi. I’m Mr. Wallace, from TW. Here’s a list of questions we’d like you to ask our client while he’s ‘strapped in’ so to speak. We’ll be paying your regular fee, of course, regardless of the outcome.”

  “Of course. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in the lobby, though. You’ll find some magazines in there to read while you wait.”

  Not yours though, buddy.

  “Thank you.”

  That’s better. Now. What’s this Japanese faker looking for? Acoustic tiles to count? Nothing here but bare walls, mister. Tee-hee-hee.

  “Mr. Ushisi, right? Have a seat, please.”

  That’s right. Lean back onto the rubber bladder, fool, so the Reid polygraph can pick up the muscular twitches in your back while you’re lying. And here—how about these pneumograph tubes to go around your chest and abdomen.

  “I’ve never done this before.”

  Oh sure, buddy. And after they probably just spent a week preparing you. Unfortunately for you, I know all the tricks too. Just like, being a weekend fisherman myself, I know there’s no such thing as a 22 pound trout.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Who, me? Maybe just a little.”

  Thanks for the warning, but I expected as much. Now let me finish putting this blood pressure cuff over your brachial artery and these electrodes on your ring and index fingers. . .we’ll find out soon enough what I already know.

  “Now just relax, Mr. Ushisi. Look straight ahead and answer my questions yes or no. Now. . . Is your name Broderick Ushisi?”

  “No, but you’re getting warm.”

  “Just a little joke, Mr. Ushisi. Wowed’em at the convention. Seriously now. Is your name Lee Ushisi, and were you born in Brooklyn in 1948?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your father, a former POW, sent you to Kyoto as a teen to be a merchant fisherman like he had been before the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you speak fluent Swahili?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been to Japan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever been to the Great Lakes?”

  “Yes.”

  Your galvanic skin response just jumped off the scale there, buddy. I wonder why?

  “Do you often go on hunting and fishing trips alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the trout you caught really 22 pounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you trying to deceive me because Trout World is paying you to?”

  “No!”

  Your thoracic response says otherwise, Mr. Hot Dog. That deep, regular breathing you’re doing never helped anyone in my chair, either. You might as well be signing a full confession—because none of this is in the script.

  “Yours is just another fishy story, isn’t it Mr. Ushisi?”

  “No! Wait. . .”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been lying.”

  “I know you have.”

  “It wasn’t a trout. And I’ve never been to Lake Superior. But if I told them that. . . I mean, I need the money, okay? To get back to Japan and see my kid. I got laid off recently at the Toyota plant. . .they didn’t want to fire Americans for fear of the backlash. Couldn’t tell the truth because even the Enquirer wouldn’t believe it. So I got this idea about the trout. Said I’d take a lie detector to prove it. Then when I get in here I’d give you this. Here. It’s a list of questions. Ask me these.”

  Well, well. These people aren’t so stupid after all. A second list.

  “You want me to ask you—”

  “Yes, yes. Please hurry.”

  “Okay. Answer truthfully, yes or no. Question number one. . .does Mr. Wallace out in the lobby know about this second list?”

  “No.”

  Hey. Not bad. No surprise at my trap. No blood pressure or GSP peaks here. Respiration and muscle responses normal. Either this guy is telling the truth or he’s the best evader I’ve ever seen. Now let’s try what he’s got here.

  “Were you in the North Sea with the Japanese fishing fleet in 1966?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you and your, ah, colleagues manage to drag one of your trawlers inland from the Scottish coast in sections, disguising the hull as a house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And on the night of April 28, did you trawl Loch—hey, wait a minute! Did you trawl Loch Ness?”

  “Yes, we did. Successfully.”

  Look at this! No evasion, respiration blocks, nothing. Just clean even readings!

  “What are you telling me—that a bunch of you guys secretly inva
ded Scotland and caught THE BIG ONE?”

  “Plesiosaur, thirty-eight foot head to tail. Couldn’t report it, though. It was an illegal catch.”

  “Is that why there hasn’t been any major sightings since—”

  “No, I think there’s been other sightings, hasn’t there? Don’t you watch the History Channel? We threw it back, you see. It was too small.”

  “You—”

  “We just wanted to see if we could do it. It’s how we’ve made our living for ages—tracking down and catching the whale, the octopus, the shark. Nessie was a private kind of challenge. The mountain you have to climb because it’s there.”

  Look at those tracings!

  “Are you lying to me?”

  “No.”

  Holy Moly! What now?

  “You want me to tell Mr. Wallace you passed on this?”

  “No. Just on the trout story. No one would believe the truth, and it’s a matter of pride, you know.”

  “I can see why! Well, I’m through here then, Mr. Ushisi. But give me your opinion on something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Last month while I was waiting in line at the Piggly-Wiggly, I read an article in the Examiner titled UFO VISITS AL GORE. Surely that was a fabrication, don’t you think?”

  “Probably was. But it makes you wonder what really happened, doesn’t it?”

  It surely does, buddy. It surely does.

  DIEry ENTRY 681: Whistle While You Smirk

  You’re still here? A miracle. Now, before I talk about my friendship with Julian Assange and various whistleblowers, I should mention that you won’t find clues to my whereabouts anywhere in this book, although I will mention that I got my Doberman “Chuckles” from a Halliburton training facility nearby. After Chuck failed his annual eye exam, they were going to put him out to pasture in the Texas oil fields, which is why I got him for $20 and a case of JR Ewing beer. I’ve been feeding Charles Alpo mixed with glucosamine, B12 and steroids, and keeping him close to me on a short leash. Mostly he’s under control, although he once bit through my belt with canines that I’d filed sharper, then took aim at my privates. Luckily he couldn’t see very good or I’d be missing more than just a thumb.

  Did I mention I own the very .357 Magnum used by Clint Eastwood in Magnum Force? The bullets are silver, in case any of you also believe yourselves to be vampires or zombies (which is quite possibly, given your TV viewing habits.) Salman Rushdie sold me one of his AK-47s too, and I’m currently trying to purchase one of the tanks the Army removed from Afghanistan (but then couldn’t afford to repair since the Taliban had put sand in the gas tank.) I figure to move the tank into one of three trailer parks within rolling range of the Halliburton plant, and live in it. Then I’ll need to erect a tall fence to keep kids from climbing all over the turret, (along with Mormons looking to find the doorbell.)

  Getting back to my imaginary friends, there’s Tom Drake, the ex intelligence officer who blew the whistle on the government’s waste of three billion dollars, and was being prosecuted for leaking the intel until 60 Minutes did a story on him. . .at which point all charges were dropped. Together, we sometimes troll storage lockers in Houston in hopes of finding old silver or gold jewelry to sell to companies advertising to buy those metals prior to the collapse of the dollar, (when filling your tank will cost a nice wedding ring.) Add the guy who blew the whistle on big tobacco, (or rather his son Gerald), and, together with Julian, we play a mean game of Pictionary. Baton pass back to Jon. Thanks for listening.

  –Walter “Surprise, Surprise” Witty

  DIEry ENTRY 682: You’re Confusing Julian and Me Too, Wally

  Just how would I avoid boredom inside Walter’s imagined tank, with no cable-ready HD3D? Well, since (like Walter) I can’t travel much anymore either, (after “coming out of the locker” without a jersey), one thing I’d do is read—something wrestling fans haven’t done since “See Spot Bleed Karo Syrup & Food Coloring.” Books like THE MORAL MOLECULE, written by a scientist whose research showed that a lack of the brain chemical oxytocin is responsible for all those balding alpha males butting heads on the ball field (when they can’t stab each other in the trenches with bayonets up close and personal, so much more fun than any turkey shoot from a distance.) Oxytocin is suppressed by the hormone testosterone, which in turn saturates the blood of those whose idea of “win-win” is everyone losing big time. (And I don’t mean just cable bills.) Oxytocin is what makes people want to cooperate and be empathic and understanding. Take it away, and people want to kill. . .or at least roar past, giving you the finger for delaying their rush to a monster truck rally. Of course women can be oxytocin-deprived (i.e. depraved) too, just not as often. What it comes down to is that those with the most java juice in their veins want to violate, pillage, slap around, and generally humiliate (e.g. piss) on their opponents.

  Unless there’s a game on, of course.

  As for Julian Assange, whose statements are sometimes chronicled on Yahoo trends (along with which football players are boinking Kim Kardashian or Eva Longoria), I’ve never actually met the man, (despite Wally’s claims.) Call him a criminal if you like, but at least he’s not competing in the National Bacon Eating Playoffs edition of The Glutton Bowl. Many in the Pentagon and on Capitol Hill label him as a traitor for publishing embarrassing cables and mismanaged classified documents sent him from third parties. They also wish they could eat his liver, along with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. . . soon after figuring out how to avoid having to feed The New York Times to the Lions.

  CHAPTER 665: The Locksmith Who Taught Witty Zen

  “Has he confessed or what?” I asked Lieutenant Drake of the NYPD as he handed me the police report that lay atop the board games Clue, Risk, Candyland, and Yahtzee.

  “Yes and no, Mr. Witty,” Drake replied. “As his court appointed lawyer, you’ll have to sort that out on your own. He was caught red-light/green-light, but claims he’s not guilty. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have several more important——meaning violent——games of Scrabble to cover.”

  I went to the room where Albert Noonan was presented to me as a 20 Questions contestant. A short bald man in his forties, he seemed placid, yet his blue eyes were as alive as a dodge ball player’s. I sat across from him, and opened the folder on the table between us. Then we shook hands. His fingers felt cool, much like the fingers of sociopathic banking professionals who later play Sorry! with fellow inmates at the Marriott correctional facility in Kauai. “I’m Walter Witty, Mr. Noonan,” I said. “I’ll be representing you in court.”

  “Yes,” Noonan said.

  “Yes,” I repeated his flat, uninflected acknowledgment. “Yes, well, it says here that you are suspected on nine occasions to have placed your own locks on other people’s various doors and gates. On the ninth and last occasion you were caught chaining shut the ticket office to a football stadium just before tickets to a rap concert and Yankees game went on sale. The note in your pocket says RESIST NOTHING EXCEPT THE ILLUSION OF EGO AND ITS EMOTIONS AND OBSESSIONS. Tell me, were you about to copy the man who the press is calling Sargon, or are you really him?”

  “Do you really know who you are, or the game you’re playing right now?” Noonan asked me, without a trace of sarcasm, subtle censure of my effrontery, or temerity or even presupposed perspicacity.

  “Excuse me?” I said, with exaggerated abstraction or hyperbolical flabbergastivity.

  “Names are merely signposts pointing to the reality beneath,” he declared, although his voice remained utterly calm and without big words. “They are constructs of the ever compulsive mind, which can only label things, and then produce in you a fear of your own destruction.”

  I evinced a half smile despite myself. “That’s nice, Albert, but we haven’t got time to discuss philosophy, or to kriegspiel around like this.”

  “It is not philosophy, it is simple fact. As for time, that is the illusion. Most people live in the past or the future, and yet the past and future do not exi
st, nor have they ever existed. Indeed, everything that happens, happens in the Now.”

  I coughed and looked down at my now empty Pez dispenser. “So. . . do I call you Deepak Chopra, or do you prefer ‘Sargon the Enlightened One’?”

  He continued to study me, his sharp blue eyes trying to interpret my drooping eyelashes. “As I said, names are meaningless. It is the ego, the mind which needs to label things. But that egotistic tumoresicness within your mind is not you. You are hidden behind this bulbous and protuberant growth. Only the real you can know another person, not your mind. Your mind can only know labels and scores. It labels everything from a flower to a person, but cannot truly know the score of either, no matter what you may claim when channeling quantum mechanical cognizance on infomercials for autographed Biblical study guides.”

  “Listen . . . Mr. Noonan? I’m about to toss my cookies here. If I’m to defend you, you’ll have to cooperate.”

  “If only that were true,” he said, pushing aside the Chinese checkers he’d been playing.

  “What do you mean, if only that were true? You don’t think I’m here to help you?”

  “What I think is that you think too much. Everyone does. This is what is wrong with the world. The mind plays an endless game with you, and you identify with it. You play along, like it’s a competition and not a delusion. Your mind hates the Now, hates the real world, and so you are never happy or at peace.”

  “Please, Al,” I pleaded. “Please just answer my question. Are you this Sargon they talk about in the papers, or just another nut job Parcheesi champion?”

  He sat back and folded his hands. After a moment he said, “It was around seven hundred BC, in the Assyrian capital of Khorsabad, that King Sargon the Second used a lock to secure the gate to his fortress. His lock was wooden, and utilized a wooden key which had notches on it matching the blocks or ‘wards’ inside the lock. Over twenty four hundred seventy years later, in 1778, Robert Barron—not the priest—invented the first lever tumbler lock, which consisted of a housing containing springs, metal tumblers, and a rotating inner core called a plug. Unlike all prior warded locks, these pin, disk, or lever tumbler locks were difficult to pick because a cam was involved. Now, of course, certain tumbler locks are secured inside housings of tempered magnesium alloy steel. And since we should live in the Now, this is what matters now, does it not?”