Hogan, the standby homeland security director says, “I want everyone to be stripped before I allow them into the cave.”
The standby attorney general says, “I want to practice military tribunals, just in case. If I ever have to be the real AG, I’m going to take away all the people’s rights.”
While they are eating, Artie Bear, the backup secretary of defense, comes in the room and says tearfully, “Someone has been sleeping in my bed.”
The ersatz secretary of the treasury says, “And someone was eating out of my bowl.”
The substitute secretary of state says, “Someone has been sitting in my chair.”
The stand-in attorney general says, “This is a case for the FBI.”
The surrogate CIA head chimes in, “We have a tip that it is Goldilocks, the shadow secretary of labor.”
The substitute AG says, “Let’s round up anyone in the cave who looks suspicious.”
Nancy Hubbard, the backup national security director says, “I went to the cupboard this morning and it was bare.”
The alternate OMB director says, “There was nothing in the budget for the cupboard. You should have stocked it with pork.”
One of the shadow White House officials says, “We’re not supposed to do anything until the balloon goes up. But there is no reason why we can’t practice damage control.”
“How can we have spin if we don’t have a press secretary?”
“I’m here,” a man at the end of the table says. “I can give you all the spin you want.”
As the shadow men and women are talking, someone enters the cave. The secretary of defense asks the secretary of state, “Who is that?”
“Beats me. I never saw him before in my life.”
The shadow homeland security director says, “I better keep an eye on him.”
The pseudo-secretary of agriculture says, “He looks exactly like Vice President Cheney.”
It is Vice President Cheney,” the substitute secretary of the treasury says.
“Then what is he doing down here?”
The CIA man replies, “They want him out of sight, and what better place than with the shadow government?”
Haige says, “If the real vice president is here, then I can’t be the shadow vice president.”
“You can be the shadow secretary of commerce.”
Haige says, “I’m always getting the wrong end of the stick.”
Safe Deposit for Sale
SOME OF THE LARGEST and most patriotic American companies are incorporating in the Caribbean to avoid paying income taxes. Billions of dollars are being deposited in such places as the Cayman Islands and Bermuda.
The slogan for the companies is: “Our stockholders, right or wrong.”
There is such a rush on overseas deposit boxes that they are sought after by everyone. As soon as one becomes available, every self-respecting tax evader bids on it.
Here are some of the top boxes now being advertised:
“A beautiful safe deposit box, overlooking the blue waters of Turtle Reef. Enough room for a million dollars’ worth of tax-free cash or bonds. Perfect for someone who is just starting out in business.”
Another ad reads, “This box is located in one of the largest banks on Grand Cayman Island. It originally housed offshore money from the Enron Company. A steal since the company went bankrupt. It is more than a deposit box—it is a room with its own laundromat for laundering tax money worth more than $10 million. The room comes in mahogany, and has two sets of electric locks, just like the ones at the Federal Reserve.”
This is a good one: “For the first time, this safe with three rooms and nuclear bomb-proof walls is for sale. It was put on the market by a motion picture company that sent all its worldwide receipts to the Cayman Islands in hopes of saving $100 million a year in taxes.
“Rodney Murthless, president of the company, said, ‘We had to do it because our two blockbusters turned out to be turkeys. We were sorry to give it up because the box also came with golf privileges and a marina, which our executives and movie stars used when they flew in from Hollywood.’”
This one appeared in the want ads: “Attention certified accountants. Your clients deserve only the best, which means they need protection from the IRS. We now have condominium safes that are located in the peaceful sand dunes, away from the hustle and bustle of town. If you sign up you will automatically become a member of the Cayman Tax Cheaters Club. Safe deposit boxes start at $80,000, and our lawyers will do your corporate paperwork for you. Your box will have a confidential number that the FBI will never be able to track down.
“Speaking of condos, the Caymans are now offering time-share safes for two-week periods. The choice time to do this is in April, when you want to be near your money.”
What’s good about putting your money in an offshore account is that the administration hasn’t said anything against it. One of the reasons is that the Bush administration smiles on the rich people and makes sure they get all the breaks.
I know one company that hangs the U.S. flag from the roof of its building, buys Girl Scout cookies, supports political candidates, but prefers to be incorporated in the beautiful islands offshore.
The CEO of the company said, “We not only don’t pay any taxes, but we hope to get rebates from the IRS to put us in the black.”
I asked a banker if ordinary citizens in lower income brackets could go offshore. He said, “Offshore is only for the big guys who can’t stand pain.”
The Young Audience
EVERY TIME I PICK UP the papers I read that a network is bragging about one of its shows attracting the 18-to-39-year-old audience. And why shouldn’t they brag?
The 18-to-39s are the only ones in America who have any buying power. The network producer of a reality show called Death Rattle told me Death was watched by 40 million people, all under the age of 40. The person who doesn’t die from a heart attack after climbing Mount Everest wins a million dollars.
Ron Kendall, the producer, was merciless. “We are reaching the audience we want and we are making the sponsor very happy. The 18-to-39-year-old audience buys beer, Nike running shoes and BMWs. They are making the economy soar, unlike the tight-wad 40-to-90-year-old losers who hang on to their money because they are afraid their pensions won’t get them through their September years.”
I said: “But the biggest advertisers on television are the drug companies, which are selling pharmaceuticals for everything from arthritis to insomnia.”
“At the moment these are not problems of the 39-and-under crowd,” Kendall told me. “But they will be later. All the drug companies are trying to do at this time is educate the younger people as to what they have to look forward to later on. We want the kids to know when they turn 40, and for the rest of their lives, they will always have Viagra waiting for them.”
I asked, “Suppose the over-40 population wants to buy something?”
“We can’t stop them. At the same time, the advertiser is not sucking up to them.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, our surveys show that the mature audiences always go to the washroom when the commercial comes on, and they take a newspaper with them.”
“Where do the 18-to-39s get their money?” I asked.
“From their parents. One of the reasons the over-40s are lacking in purchasing power is that they have to support their children.”
“Even the 39-year-olds?”
“Especially the 39-year-olds.”
“Are all your shows aimed at the youth market?”
“Of course,” he said. “The networks are always trying to put no-brainers on the air. The less complicated the program is, the higher the rating.”
“Is Death Rattle so popular because you don’t have to be a nuclear scientist to understand it?”
“You can say that again.”
Suddenly, two men came into Kendall’s office and started removing furniture. “What are you doing?” Kendall asked them. On
e of the movers read from a slip of paper.
“You’re Ron Kendall and you were born in 1962. That makes you 40 and you have been fired.”
“Give me a break. I didn’t know about this.”
“You should have thought of that before you decided to turn 40.”
It’s Cherry Blossom Time
SPRING IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL time of the year in Washington. It is cherry blossom time. In past years, tourists from all over the world came to look at the blossoms. But now it’s different, because the cherry blossoms are looking at us. As part of Homeland Security, video cameras have been placed in the trees and monuments around the Tidal Basin.
There is now an FBI Cherry Blossom SWAT Team whose sole job it is to monitor tourists who go in and out of the Tidal Basin.
The team is located in the cellar of the J. Edgar Hoover building, where they man the TV screens 24 hours a day.
Let’s see where it all leads. Two of the agents are studying the screens.
“Buck, I think I’ve got someone standing under the Weeping Higan tree by the Lincoln Memorial.”
“Which one?”
“The guy in the red jersey with the New York Yankees baseball cap. He’s taking a picture of his wife and two kids who are eating salt-water taffy.”
“I see them now. What makes you think they could be terrorists?”
“Why would someone be taking pictures of the cherry blossoms unless he had a subversive reason? I’m going to do a visual recognition on him.”
The agent went to his computer. He put the tourist’s picture on the screen and the computer started spitting out information. The agent read, “He’s Brad Ellicott, a lawyer who lives in Greenwich with his wife and two children. He went to Harvard, she to Wellesley. Ellicott is a rock-ribbed Republican and gave $100 to Bush in the last election. He has no known connection to any terrorist organizations except the ACLU. Well, we have nothing there.”
The other agent says, “Look over there at the Capitol. You see the demonstrator with the sign protesting the high cost of prescription drugs?”
“The guy looks seventy years old. He’s shouting that drug companies are sticking it to the people who need the drugs the most.”
“He sounds like an agitator to me. Let’s do a profile on him. My gosh, listen to this. He studied psychology at Berkeley, was a member of the Socialist Party, voted for Adlai Stevenson, and subscribed to the Nation magazine. He spent a year in Europe where he hung out with Ernest Hemingway and Jean-Paul Sartre. He was always a troublemaker.”
The first agent said, “We better find out what he is really up to.” He pushed the Homeland Security button and a SWAT team came roaring out of the basement, their sirens blaring.
As the agents watched on the TV monitor, the SWAT team tore down the protestor’s sign and body-searched him. Then the lieutenant called the FBI at Cherry Blossom Headquarters and said, “We found nothing except an unfilled prescription for $200 arthritis pills.”
Malice on Purpose
I JUST READ THAT SATIRE could be dangerous to your health. Two officials in Texas are suing a weekly newspaper for printing a story that a reporter wrote. It was a satirical piece, which pretended the officials had sent a six-year-old to prison for reading a book in class. The basis of the satire was that a judge and a district attorney had actually sent a thirteen-year-old to jail. The plaintiffs claimed they were libeled because the story was not labeled satire.
This scared the heck out of me because satire is my business and I can’t afford to defend myself—particularly at the prices lawyers charge these days.
Let me give you an example of how satire works.
I read where the Republicans sent out invitations for a fundraiser in Washington. In the invitation was a letter saying donors could also buy three patriotic photos of the president taken on 9/11, which they could have as souvenirs for $150 extra.
Now this is the kind of story I love because it makes you realize how tacky politics can really be.
I interviewed a Republican fundraiser (fictitious, of course), accusing him of cashing in on what was one of the saddest days in our history, and he replied, “It wasn’t political—it was patriotic. Besides, President Clinton did a lot worse. For a fee he let his guests leave their dirty socks in the Lincoln Bedroom.” (I am bringing the Democrats into it to give the Republican side, which is a brilliant idea.)
He added, “The only ones who think the photo idea was smarmy were the left-wing liberals who are critical of anything the president does.” (That’s what we in the satire business call a “zinger.”)
I said, “Some critics say the Republican fundraisers are sucking up to the right wing.”
He said, “Why shouldn’t we? They were the ones who got Bush elected.” (Bull’s-eye.)
The question, dear reader, is how someone can be fair if he writes satire. The answer is, he can’t. Satire is malicious, and until now, protected by the First Amendment.
It is a way to express an opinion and also make the reader laugh. The important thing is for the person reading to have knowledge of what is being satirized so he/she can be in on the joke.
I remember once during the McCarthy days I wrote an article saying that almost every town in America had four or five organizations to fight communists—but the towns didn’t have any communists. I suggested each one import a communist to come there and be the threat. He would throw garbage on people’s lawns, demonstrate at the courthouse and agree to have his phone tapped by the FBI.
The column caused a tremendous reaction, some negative, some positive, but I think I made my point.
We live in a country where writers can satirize anything they want to, even their own satire.
It’s a malicious business, but someone has to do it.
Red Alert
LIKE MOST AMERICANS, I listen to what my leaders tell me to do. So when Cheney of the White House, Rumsfeld of Defense, Ridge of Homeland Security and Ashcroft of Justice tell me to prepare for an attack, I listen.
The next question I ask myself is, if we are attacked, what do I do? Certainly Homeland Security has plans for me.
I called the Homeland Security hotline and told the man who answered the phone, “I have heard the alert warnings and I want to get out of town.”
“Where do you live?”
“Washington, D.C., right near American University.”
He said, “That’s a bad place to be in case of an attack.”
“I know that. Could you advise me on how to escape from the area?”
“Take the Beltway.”
“But isn’t everyone else taking the Beltway?”
There was a pause. “Maybe you’re right. Take the Bay Bridge in Maryland and drive until you hit the Perdue Chicken Ranch, and hide in a hatchery until the all-clear is sounded.”
“It’s pretty hard to get on the bridge on a normal weekend, much less during an alert. I’ll be in my car for 10 hours and then run out of gas.”
He said, “You are not being helpful. Suppose you took the subway to Reagan National Airport and grabbed a plane.”
“Where to?”
“Buffalo is as good as anyplace. At least it’s not a prime target.”
“That is a big help.”
“Don’t forget North Carolina. Nobody is going to blow up Nags Head.”
“How do I get from Washington to Nags Head?”
“Call the AAA. They’ll tell you.”
“Is this a red alert or a green one?”
“It’s a red one, which means fill up your gas tank, put a dozen bottles of water in the back seat, and carry antacid pills.”
“What about my credit cards?”
“Be sure to take them with you. There may be a lot of places along the line where you can use them.”
“Where are you going to be?”
“In the mountains of West Virginia. Since I am one of the top people in Homeland Security, they are going to fly me out in a helicopter.”
“I g
otcha. Suppose I stay in the basement?”
“Good idea. When we find where the threat is, I’ll call you back.”
“One last question. I know I should be on the alert, but what should I be alert for?”
“That’s the FBI’s secret.”
The FBI Changes Its Ways
EVEN THOUGH J. EDGAR HOOVER is turning over in his grave, the FBI is changing its ways. The priority now is terrorism, and crime may be on the back burner. This is what could happen:
“Is this the FBI?”
“It’s not Pizza Hut.”
“I have a tip for you. I just saw John Dillinger, the notorious bank robber, enter a movie with a redhead. He looked armed and dangerous.”
“We don’t do bank robbers anymore. Did you notice if he had any explosives in his shoes?”
“He might have. I just wanted to alert you.”
“Look, mister, if we had to tie up our agents with bank-robbing cases, we’d never find out where Osama bin Laden is hanging out. Call back in a couple of weeks and if Dillinger is still with the redhead, let us know.”
“Is this the FBI?”
“All our lines are busy. Please wait for the next available agent. Your call is very important to us and will be taped for our files.”
Twenty-five minutes later someone answers the phone.
“FBI. I can’t talk to you about drugs because we’ve reduced our drug department to two undercover agents in Mexico.”
“This is Senator Boogle. One of my constituents was appointed to the Global Warming Committee last year, and he still hasn’t been cleared by the FBI.”
“We don’t have time to clear people in the government. He will have to wait his turn like everybody else.”
“How long will that be?”
“If he’s lucky, we should finish our paperwork by 2006.”
The phone rings again. “Mr. Hanssen, the traitor, is unable to come to the phone. He is either in solitary or being squeezed dry by our agents.”
Beating Around the Bush Page 3
