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New World Hors Doeuvres

by / Golashes Journlista

Retired air force general Michael Dugan should be rehired for special mission. He should be seen on the news at Attica State Prison speaking from prepared script to a house full of confirmed killers: Your job is Saddam. No holds barred. Anything is fair game between you and him. The camera could pan the rapist/killer crowd shouting, Sodomize Saddam! Couple days thence the follow-up clip could show jailbirds or paratroopers dressed in prison garb, practicing parachute jumps. Iraq around the clock with that on CNN!

Recently, in Buffalo, N.Y., a man was charged with murder. Just released, he´d been living in a rooming house. He had words with his ninety-three year old landlady about taking out the garbage and he slit her throat. Too late for him. But currently we keep, at great taxpayer expense, at least another dirty hundred twenty thousand dozen mean-spirited fish like him.

Men and women doing twenty-five to life who did assault and battery for pastimes before attempting or committing murder should automatically qualify. Confirmed violent killers from every state could redeem themselves; be underwritten for active duty life insurance and given the no-choice option of fresh identity cum passport when their tour of patriotic duty is complete.

It's universal: war sucks life away. Nor was our own just cause reason for traumatizing another generation of volunteer draftees, though it's a done deal already. The young who entered the military with peace time promised benefits should not have been front-lined when we have such primed job-ready assets, languishing in jail. Nationwide we've imprisoned enough strange dangerous fellows who would have loved the chance to play Lawrence of Arabia for a month. What honest to goodness malevolent mind could pass up such a violent high-tech opportunity for personal freedom?

Billions of taxpayer dollars are spent keeping this human garbage. On paper, these misfits appear parolable; and, eventually, they get released. Based on their free-spirited conduct going hand-to-hand with Saddam's G-men, his unstranded Repo-Saddamites, our violent mis-fits could all be given livable post bellum pensions along with clean passports and fresh ID. Enough said on behalf of our most fearless best unused potential front line of assaulters. Let them eat hashish.

And let the Baghdadis be squinting skyward for those thousand rapist chutes they saw on CNN. Rich and poor alike should understand that every day they live under Saddam (who bunkers under them) Baghdad's weather can easily go back to warm and bomby. Let his generals mistakenly believe we may begin to annihilate everything while waiting for Saddam, and they will cough him up; except his majesty King George of the Vision War's Doeuvres doesn't want Saddam on a plate regurgitated. Too messy.

Early on, before the rattle of battles began, one of our desert units referenced themselves as goats, and their group leader : goat tender. Instead of trekking home we should be showing Saddam the meaning of Ram Tough! Dodge Ram and Jeep Cheyenne, Comanche, and Cherokee. An off-road 4x4 plow fronted Silverado with trailer hitch for additional ammo is a much better long range desert vehicle than our inefficient tanks and Bradleys which were designed, after all, with a non-combatant European theater in mind.

One of our 4x4, 25 mpg Rams can sail over berms or climb any dune. Saddam's crude cauldron set the Kuwaiti desert ablaze, life destructing for birds and fish. That's too damn bad for Saddam. He has to be shown, once and for all, how our off-road Blazers, Raiders, 4x4 GMC's, and F150's, doing the surf on Iraqi turf, can resolutely savage his Repo-baggage throughout all Iraq's harsh terrain.

Our Chief Waffle could have a conference call or multiple fax every car dealership in America and our various 4x4 models, rechristened Scorpion Brigadiers, could be readied in 48 hours! Common sense dictates the simple menu for war-mein retrofitting: remove chrome; coat machines completely desert cream; uniformly splotch beige; rig front with cream plow, also splotch; beef suspensions; enlarge gas tanks; install Mobile One in crank; charcoal dip filter of air conditioning; stick-on dashboard compasses; reupholster camper tops in Kevlar same stuffin' door panels; dress cab with AM/FM surround, compact disks, citizen donated; include best dash-bracketed 40 band CB radios with police radar guns also, distance recalibrated, so when our Scorpions dash around the desert floor in forty-tooth combs we mean anything else rolling is guaranteed a surface-to-surface laser-guided ticket.

Armageddon, The Movie, coming to a screen near you. The army/navy film we've got is not enough! Every missionary truck should go with double overhead cam-corder so we can see their vortex happenstance. Every truck has to have Tow missile roof brackets so trained gunners can park their tail bone on the spare tire to fire. Every truck should have machine gun brackets on the cab roof - with skylight set vertical above the passenger - so when the need arises, whoever is riding shotgun can pitch in, too.

Slapping a plate of bullet-proof glass on Scorpion's windshield is optional, based on availability. Oversize mud flaps eliminate their signature. Pack rubber front wheel housings with marine grade cable grease and coat same outside to insure a layer of pro-tective Saudi sand so it really won't matter who is putting pedal to the metal because using up these unsold trucks will rightly hasten Armageddon's weak end-game with Repo-Saddambo's scum bags snuffed and minimal innocent death.

Not-with-standing the above pre-Feb-March ground war scenario - with only a few of the sentences getting refreshment so their updated tense reflects the present post-bellum pre-limbo aftermath - it was clear in advance to every multiple newspaper reader that our ribbon-shirts had to have their ground assault when they did. For the arm chair pros and silver star commandos it was personal redemption from the legacy of Ho Che Min.

And in the war's ill conceived, premature aftermath, shouldn't we be sending forty-thousand vehicles, equipped as above, providing at least some off-road air conditioned recreational entertainment to slake the boredom of our remaining troops. The dealerships can charge the pentagonical sticker price for their dusty unsold trucks and we can pass along the cost to swampy Saddammy or the dear Emir.

I still can hear Armageddon's rough ram tough cacophony:
"Listen up, Bro. We got a relay from Cheyenne One a string of Saddam De´ville´s is rollin´ down the concrete."
"Speeders. My ticket book is ready."
"Yo. This could be the main train, Cheyenne One says six covered wagons in the lead, a fuel truck, a water truck, twelve Mercedes, one overland doggie, and two Win-nebagos, plus the number two Winnie is pullin' a satellite dish."
"Saddam is on the lam."
"Lookin´ for a-sigh-lamb."
"Yo Bro, they´re slowing down."
"Show nuf they slowin' down, sucker, these dudes lookin' for the smuggler's cutoff north to Eye-ran."
"Hey Ram-four, get on the satellite phone and call up some Apaches. I got a gallon of Koolaid says it's the big Bag-daddy with a suitcase full of bullion in the overland doggy soon as we start writing tickets he's going to break from the pack and head straight north for the border."
"Let ‘im be lucky anuff to get that far there's twenny bad-Rams an' another twenny Cheyenne dug in the wadi."
"I was up there yesterday ‘n those dudes all got rugs fir lettin' some Iranian four wheelers through the pass."
"Hey cousins, this is Model T (#) 3, we have in place two disabled Iraqi vehicles blocking the highway as you approach the cutoff."
"Brothers and sisters, there's twenty-nine of them and forty-one of us. Cheyenne One says the covered wagons each got fifty elite crackerjacks so we got to hit ‘em fast stomp down hard and stomp again."
"This ain't no hit ‘em and run like night before last. I feel it in my bones we gots the bag man from Baghdad."
"I say we draws lots to see who gets to Sodomize ‘im."
"Yaul could git Aids, dummy."
"I say we circumcise ‘im with a bayonet."
"Stop countinÕ chickens cuz it's enchilada time I see ‘em comin´."
"OK, forty-five seconds to show time."

Years ago it was 14 cents for a Saturday matinee show. I loved the part when far as the eye could see, Custer watched the empty Little Big Horn silhouette with ten thousand Oglala Souix. Yellow Hair's jaw fell and my hero, Tashunka Witcoh, was ready to rock and roll, his battle orders from The Great White Spirit.

The ugliest, most counter-productive, belligerent ecological disaster in the world's written history is reason enough to have let our Rams, Cheyenne, Comanche, and Cherokee go for Saddam's straggling Guard, whether hog-tied like Custer, or cut loose on the back-roads to Baghdad - we should've created a hundred Little Big Horns, electronically honking for Apache, our prayer rugs a jellied petrol carpet. And who was with Saddam to stop us on freedom's highway besides our elected leader, King George?

The souls of the Iranian kids made Iraqi machine gun fodder cry out to Allah for retribution. The souls of innocent Kuwaitis, and of the newly born children ripped from their cradles beg Allah for retribution, and Big-Al hears them. The souls of the Kurds, and of the dissenting Iraqi Shiites and Sunnis cry out to Allah and Allah the unseen desert G-d who created the wind and who centuries ago revealed his majesty into the mind of Moses the Teacher, Mosha Ra Bay New, who delivered the Hebrew nation, that life guide desert G-d demands of his Man from Shem and from all of his children the sword of retribution.

A battery powered yellow flasher on the roof, set in a sleeve is visible only from above. The 4x4's can set themselves in an arrow formation an hour past dusk and by dawn - after Apaches, Wart-hogs, and rug men from on high - the job is done. All of their undetected, stationary T-52's every night without loss on our side is/was my con-servative estimate. Equipped with construction flashers like that, Scorpions lining the roadside could turn any Iraqi highway into an instantaneous coalition freedom-fighter air strip.

It turns out that Special Forces, dropped behind Iraqi enemy lines, went equipped with hand held laser gadgets to silently cling-on moving Iraqi convoys that were satellite eye-balled for devastation. Nor did our collective eye-ball blink in those laser guided nose-cones when we were, enmasse, selectively fed an instantaneous Strangelovian straddle hoo-ah from cradle-bay down - ten gallon hats a-waving hoo-ah!

Mr. New World Hors Doeuvres himself, the president of protocols, could call for citizen volunteers to be the mop-up freedom fighter drivers now! The only requirement for joining the Hinckley Sand-fiesta Brigade is a hunting license and a seven day wait. And the Scorpion Brigadoes should be those enlisted personnel (or jail yard commandos) who volunteer for the mission. Let the Baghdadis see clips of our aging vets from the Nam cleaning their rifles with duffel bags packed. Let them hear it from those who have been to war, from their lips to G-d's middle ear, so it's clear to all Iraqis and every other babbling street corner Arab throughout the world that we have no quarrel with the Iraqi people but are determined to get Saddam. We, the people; not our waffle leader George.

Ten thousand of these spiffy 4x4 American trucks could be a retrofitted Scorpion Brigade in 48 hours. They could be driven to major airports, loaded onto C5 A Constellations (at least two hundred would fit in each planeload) and within four days, ten thousand trucks could be on line in the Saudi desert ready for their mission!

Ten thousand 4x4 trucks four men and/or women to a unit spread out along the Saudi Iraqi border? I calculate a scorpion every 300 yards. Criss-crossing the desert floor, they'll run into dozens of under-the-sand air plane hang outs, whether their one lane sand-flouged runways are blown free from spring storm or not. The trek of planes during the war to Iran was a ruse. What's a hundred fighters between goombadis, anyway? Five hundred of Saddam's command airplanes are missing in action! Underground today, they await their orders from Godot.

The Scorpion Brigade could dismantle all Iraqi telephone lines, etc. With Iraqi license plates they could drive right into Iraqi villages and permanently liberate them with our American banner raised high in the village square. Along with the stars and bars every band of forty should have at least a couple Kuwaiti brothers on board to inquire of a villager, "Where´s the airfield?" The answer might be, "Five miles out. At the end of the road behind the mosque." Throw him a Hershey bar. We could uncover hidden caches of mustard gas or biological ammo. The Scorpion brigade would certainly ferret out all their unused mobile scud missiles.

Tooo late. Saddam has already sprinkled his available left over mustard gas on the upraised Kurdish towns and anyone else in Iraq who dares to say, "Enough Saddam." The Iraqis were grabbing news-people left and right so Saddam could desert shield the sight of Re-pub-lickum Guards, liberally blowing away or gassing their own dissenting, liberty seeking people. When we raised the flag on Iwo Jima wasn't the bill right to life, freedom and liberty for all man-kind part of our equation?

Tell Iraq the free world's walking soft policemen (and women) seek lasting world peace - the rule of law is surface-to-surface - and we're going to kick off cleaning house in the cradle of civilization. Our triumvirate ground force: the French Foreign Legion, English Desert Rats, the 101st and 24thÑour combined Mobile Mohammedan is Democracy's Trojan Horse!

Berm baby berm. Thwack with Awac. A-wham Pan-Am. Un-mosque us in Damascus. In war's classic theater, the ticket clearly states that game is chess. And pawns, horses, bishops, castles, queens, even kinko sez by all means yes, it's time we shank every tank and slip a shot-put grenade in every awaiting mirage-able mig cock-pit.

General Schwarzkopf, exuberant, momentarily comes clean during his famous tour de bif of brief - it's public knowledge - we have evidence the Iraqis have aircraft stashed amongst civilians. How is it this particulate observer, Golashes Journalista, was able to surmise as much sans access to their top secret cam-recorders in orbit?

Schwarzkopf is a beautiful blob. Norm is the fellow who could easily inspire the vast unregistered majority to cast their ballot. After a twelve hour shift of official ovaling, he'd go upstairs, pour himself a whiskey and privately blurt out to his wife, "Gimmie a kiss, honey-pie, all day long it was forked tongue misfits, liars, and double dealers." Not H. Stormin´ Norman slobbered on escargot or drunk with pork-rind power, killing the day in Air Force One.

A couple hundred Scorpions could drive straight away to Saddam's nuclear plantation and finish the job our air force only started, as the crucial parts of that nukey facility, like the MIA uranium pebbles, are surely deep underground. The Scorpions will find an elevator about a quarter mile from the premises big enough to carry down a Beirut Baby; that is, a rechristened Dodge Ram or Jeep Cheyenne overloaded with explosive plastic. The Scorpions arriving at his chemical plants will discover and be able to do the same thing. The Commander-In-Chief, Waffle Redressed, is the one to give the ordeur.

Every 4x4 Ram glove box comes equipped with Madden's, Ramble Run-and-Shoot Highway Offensive Play-book. At the dawn's early breaking a band of scorpions could swing by Saddam's airports and precision ‘hail Mary´ his triple A. We could even grab a life - get the big enchilada himself during skirmish, as imagined above. It's clear from CNN / Iraqi Saddam film, On the Road with Revolutionary Council, they travel with a command recreational vehicle - perhaps a small Winnebago.

One of the network correspondoes, interviewing a Kuwaiti lady, reports from Kuwait City that two weeks before the ground offensive Saddam spent the night at her house. Booted out the day before, her spacious place, in an exclusive bomb-free neighborhood, was taken temporarily by Iraqi field commanders so Saddam could play Bedoe in his own Ramada Inn. Why didn't we permanently integrate five hundred stealthy Seals with the Kuwaiti resistence inside Kuwait City? How many lives could have been saved had we nailed Saddam with a smart-rock or some other calculated full mettle jacket?

Pre-ground TV war clips of Saddam with Russians had Big-H in his Stalinist winter top coat - perhaps he was just back from Kuwait City - and every body else dressed in a suit. Except the Russian envoy was wearing a sweater beneath his jacket. Did we actually blow the thermostat that keeps Saddamie's Wonderland underground castle at ground level temperature? Or doesn't he live there anymore?

Who can stomach the stench of a hundred four year olds burned to a crisp from another concrete slicing smart-rock? Was this our bull's eye Tomahawk view of how David slew Goliath? The Iraqi mother's curdling bomb shelter blood makes my TV screen sticky. I click the remote but keep coming up with the same scene. It must be proper-gander. By lantern light, those Iraqi mothers were sewing uniforms and bandages in that military installation.

It's the first and only Sunday of the One Hundred Hours War. Peter Jennings blips to the front where Egyptian GI's are guarding some captured Iraqis. A wounded and bloody Iraqi, chest naked, is supported by two of his captors. Panning for the camera, he turns and happily kisses his guard on the cheek. The news bite is finished. They lower Saddam's limp warrior to the ground. I start to shudder. We all shudder.

Was it so necessary to smart-rock a shelter in Baghdad with the meteor-phoric theater hundreds of miles away? Who is civilly deceiving who? The night they gruesomely snuffed that shelter's lantern light Chief Pet-Rock-Starts-From-Here had already scheduled the ground date for assault! Whatever happened to president Bushberg's law of diminishing returns? What crude ironic script is this for the poor Iraqi conscript, tied behind Bull's catapult? How sweet it is, whence that lucky survivor of laser-guided long bow's avalanche marches home to find his kids crisp'nd and wife decapitated.

Their blood, uniformly, is on all of our hands and the future - our kids - will pay through the nose for those million dollar smart-rocks. Turns out Bushberg's thousand points of light were indeed a thousand running lights, flares, and concrete plowing smart shares every night.

How come Boss Oval jumped the gun by thirty-six hours and rang the bell - killing the scene - when Hussein was only on the ropes? We knew in advance it was Tyson with socks from jump street. Out-classed and out flanked, Saddam's great mother in the sun - the she of all battles - was a shoeless, lay-down whore. Even Saddam's so-called elite crack troops could not stand up from our punch. So suckered in once again, we bought the promoter's pitch and paid a sheik's ransom for guaranteed ringside seats.

Go tell Chief Thousand-Lights-of-the-Seven-Minute-Attention-Span, that unless he wants to be a one-berm president, having let Saddam off the hook by allowing him to call it quits simply will not stand, down stream, with the American people. Not on election day with the road unclear. Tell Captain Pork-Rind that "Saddam Hussein, the dictator," is not, nor would he ever, "step aside," cum splash creme de la creme pirouette. That's not the way they dance over there. Furthermore, the scripture reading American public senses a giant light at the end of the beltway's fascist tunnel.

Who - is that giant coming down the aisle? Is it Imam Mohammed thru the smokey haze, or Criss-Dough The Cross Walker, Jesus of Naz, munching on ham, provolone and rye? Or is it our long-awaited Cosmic Wrapper, finely uncloaked for the main event - ready to uncork on us with Daddy's Most Ancient Drench? Or is it only pre-electoral lull before demos spin and bored with Albert of Gore, we all go for the gourd and take a Gore-bore-bye?

Schwarzkopf calls the casualty count, "miraculous." Bible thumpers will tell you from whence all the world's "miracles" come. After we do a floor cleaning sweep, using up fresh carpet bombs, who is it going for a stroll, shoulder to shoulder, with long handle rakes, searching for unborn land mines? Bechtel? Allah will protect the Iraqis clean up cruise. Let them wear kevlar.

Schwarzkopf announces he's laid down the law to those Iraqi field commanders. We are to be exchanging POW's right away. Whose idea was that? It's clear why Norm didn't order the surrendered Republican Guard to hold fast where they were - the smart military move when you're on the winning side - keep your options - he was, (could I have that in writing), faxed by higher ups to let them go! Presidents always stick together - it's the Eleventh Commandment's part of the back-water status quo.

How many dozen of our guys did Iraq hold prisoner of war? Would leaving them where they were for a few weeks longer have hurt? What a great nation-wide parade we could have had - at once honoring all of our troops via ticker tape shower for those captured few.

Scopalomine is regularly used in our hospitals. In some cases, like before disk surgery - when Dr. Serrated wants chat with the patient and have the Vic talk back, while sedated - it works great. The patient doesn't even remember getting the scopalomine. Or what he said. Or what was asked. How else to have separated the poor front-line conscripts from those roving death squads and other barbarians who torched the oil fields and tortured the innocent of Kuwait City?

Would administering scopalomine to even a couple hundred thousand prisoners have been so complicated after the logistical feat we've just accomplished. We, the people want to video-tape everything for Nurem-wadiberg. The barracks could be rigged to look like hospitals - big red crescent on the door - long rows of svelte horse-pistol beds with clean sheets - the latest in high-tech hidden cameras and consumer microphonics.

"Come here my little Iraqi prisoner sweetheart let me hook up your vein for a shot of vitamins. Lie down here." And after the questions were answered, and we found out who was who, we could have carted them surreptitiously out the back door and separated them there - some would get a shower. A real shower. And some would have gone back behind barbed wire.

We should have been giving Saddam's uncultured battered troops a couple three days of leaflets - as long as it would have taken to swell the ground with 4x4 ScorpionsÑbecause, even today, having gone this far, the American people, especially our guys over there, would gladly opt for this total Iraqi military machine intact - brought back as our guests in Kuwait; and, while we await the grand exchange that includes a live Saddam, and Terry Anderson on the same plane - what a scoop for Terry - let them eat flat bread and pork fried rice when they aren't cleaning beaches, Saddamfitti, and well heads.

When a dangerous animal escapes from the zoo we chase the beast from at least a car length away and shoot him with a tranquilizer. In the event Saddam's post war plans don't match ours, which they don't, this is how we should be dealing with his Republican Guards, and what's left of the rest of his army, too: hold tight our horse's reins, and tranquilize them some more - with the latest in pet rockology.

In the skirmish, we are superb, with a great punch on the ground. We own the heaven's reach. Not-with-standing our trump - the dirtiest one hundred twenty thousand dozen in the jail yards of America frothing at the mouth - what the Iraqis military failed to understand is that every American over there had their lights punched out at least once by the time they were sixteen years old. But did we have to get so close to these Sad-damly misled, frightened, trapped Iraqis? Why did we chance even one of us getting shot in the foot?

It's obvious from viewing the surrendering forces that we'd rendered them helpless - even with a just cause, like Jihad and country, there wasn't any taste for battle in the Iraqis. Not after all those smart-rocks from above. We ought to have eased up on the stick and quelled Chief Thousand Lights' handlers in their thirst for how-do-I-get-re-elected-blood-footage because, it could happen that we all end up going down the Abu Nye Dolly Road, choking on our own.

Isn't goody two shoes also for the gander? When George Washington crossed the Delaware he didn't wait for a warm spring day. He went in the dead of night at the height of winter's holiday. But our ribbon-chests couldn't wait to propose their date-wine to Chief Thousand Lights because, in their hearts, they saw their brutal Europeon theater machines would not hold a candle to Saudi Mother Nature's guaranteed hurrah: swirling sand storms and furious summer heat.

But the tough rams (Dodge variety) could have-can handle the job. So can the Fords, GMC's, Jeeps and Chevs were we to dispatch them today. The rag-tag army of Chad routed the Lybians. They sent those Lybian tanks packing - demolished them with shoulder launched Sams and mounted Tows on a fleet of used Toyota trucks. Scorpion's delight: maneuverability, great speed, high mpg, and even at the sticker price - militarily speaking - cheap!

This season past, 1991, every fifth Christmas tree had beneath a spiffy radio remote dune buggy good for speed up to forty mph. We could have shipped a batch of 4x4 Big Feet, the trucks with those humongous story-high tires. Loaded with plastic, these orphan variety, remote driven Beirut babies might have saved some lives. Concerned about heat seeking missiles? Delete the heat with battery pack-run motors! Or is Bush's financial law of diminishing returns somehow amiss in the Savings and Life equation.

The grief stricken father grieves for his beautiful son, "He promised me. He promised me he would be coming home." You and I - we all cry. Has our President's speech-writing team bothered to zip out any machine gun-signatured ‘thank-you´ notes to those good folk whose Johnnys aren't marching home with Amazing Grace, but instead are homeward bound, their souls entwined with their bodies bagged?

We know the Chief did not personally type a word, "signed by me," as is his perpetual buddy-boy habit to registered repubbies. Did his speech team snatch a line from Lincoln? Were any of this shoddy chief's words of his own self-making, his (expletive deleted) letters would have been quietly leaked already by his stuffed-shirt hallowed men, the oval-officians, or at least press released by the faithful dead kid's kin.

The desert spring-time storms could have worked for us in the right kind of vehicle; and can work for us today! The Mobile people will tell you their synthetic oil was first tested for durability in the land of Saud. The pre-war Scorpion rules of the road were obvious: anything going to the theater gets obliterated (resupply trucks, food, water), and in the aftermath - anything running from the scorpion freedom fighters back to Baghdad (with Kuwaiti or any civilian hostages) gets disabled. In case of the latter, call for Chinooks with pork fried rice for the bad guys.

From the mouths of selected elected and news-maker pundits are so many miffs and smudged realities demanding dispensation, like Saddam, the martyr. Martyrdom's prerequisite is a trip through The Pearly Gates. Next.

The Fourth Estate is the guardian of democratic diversity. Anyone who believes that votes. Print journalists mentioning the King by name all punctuate with, ‘super master of diplomacy´ or words to that effect. This is boss boot-licking job insurance and a fascist's plastic ticket to the East Room:

‘Hail Rolodex Conquistador vacates, the wind and waves of dipper-loam-attic dissent sliced through. All Hail the Helmsman Concerting Chief of Choppiness, one handedly nations vast and hesitant are dip-lassoed! A sea of newsprint proclaims it! Whose on first?' Slipping into bifocal mode one smells the Millie-poo: vote silver-crust Guppy-Skipper George, master of nothing save horse shoes, pork, and cigarette boaters vote George oar sublimely be - buy the next Atwater thwacked!

In today's world, any by-lined reportage printed in any American daily that sheds even a light shard on the day's events has quotes attributed to, "spoken on condition of remaining anonymous." Who is this guy, Anon? Is he the key over-riding resident micro in every reporter's electronic notebook?

The Kuwaiti freedom fighter talks to the cam-recorder about freedom, Bush, and (Carter's legacy) human rights; but his face is totally covered so he cannot be identified. The poor Baghdadi begs beneath his breath, "Please get away the government is watching." What distinguishes the three from each other is simply degree.

Khomeini was a fundamentalist kook. Dummies! Allah-tell-ya the Imam Ayatollah, may his soul rest with HaShem for eternity, was a holy man! Khomeini was a True Holy Man with close Big-Al connections. He pushed the Shah off the Iranian throne with audio cassettes vis-a-vis from a tent set up in a suburb of Paris! But Khomeini had duodenal probs and the old man died of bitter heart - Big-Al (Allah aka HaShem) closed his case - his fundamentalist sweep was only a dream swept with his soul - at final rest with G-d (Yoo-Hoo) - not unrest - in the barren desert. You should have been listening when Khomeini called for Saddam Hussein's head on a platter. Instead you fed Saddam because the Holy Ayatollah tweaked your nose. Next.

Whose fault? Start with Genie the K , the Reaganite ambassa-duress who long-lived Argentina, swilling California brut, filling her gullet with beef tartare on the night those Argentineans thought they'd exocet the British Empire. But don't blame April Glaspie, a life-time pro who no doubt has a drawer full of cables instructing her to inform Saddam (Big H) we care not a whit for oil well border disputes in the desert.

Blame Armageddon on Maggie the Thatch, the Churchillian lady who blew some sense in Chief Waffle's ear at their Aspen, Colorado meeting on August 2nd. Six minutes flat and Thatcho told Thousand Lights that they, the Brits, would not let it stand - in effect - we are a smaller nation so when push comes to shove we shall nuke Saddam Hussein, that suck - and take back the booty. The ousted yet steadfast Thatcho triumphantly said as much when beltway lunching with the power pretzels. But during that week of which eye speak, Chief Waffle's favorite pundits were sloughing off the Kuwaiti affair as a bank heist. Next.

Hold still pretzel-tasters of the deep seated eye-ball, seekers of sense in the slurry. The stuff about nuclear devising Hussein was Maggie's method for goosing Wobble King George of Squirrel into leadership's requirement - a hard roll to the righteous; for allowing the Kuwaitis of Kuwait City to be denied international justice, like the poor Cambodians of Pnom Penh before them; and so many other peoples in far-away places - was wrong. That much will be in her memoirs.

Besides ants-in-their-pants, the very oily, well off fleet-of-foot Kuwaitis, unlike the Cambodians, had deep-pockets full of internationally financed buckskins and were in facto the land lords of Fleet Street should also be in her memoirs. Awaken from thy slepen Thatcho thwackers - it's in the witten wingo! "Will not stand" is Maggie speak! Winston Churchill Maggie Speak.

Were that phraseology common to King George of the Gain-full Capitol, Mr Tax'm past the hem stir up-to-and past the hemoroid might have there professed, after vicious Debate with Geraldine of Queens, "I buttoned her up because she was rebuttable," instead of that typical boys only clubby-low intelleto crap, "I kicked her butt," from whence Chief Oval's mouth, dost usually flows undiapered.

Find John Anderson guilty of co-opting oratory instead of Grecian Formula. He poofed and scoffed that Reagan's years (recollect 'im) would be smoke and mirrors. Golly. Smoke and mirrors for eight. Beltway political handlers immediately purchased forever-flamatory no-light smudge pots.

How do we clear the haze? Outlaw tobacco - that's a step; whilst any old grinch or black-listed articulate advancing with an ounce of sense oar even a column inch of clarity is tapped, squelched, thwacked and permanently besmirched. Can anyone blame the innocent, sensitive nose for refusing to participate? On State of the Union night, that hawk of New Yawk, the anonymous upper left hack of The New York Slimes proclaimed that for Conquistador "I won the war doeuvre" George, it was, undeniably, "his night in the sun." Nah. The drivel and the swoon in the house of double-dribble was closer to Darkness At Noon.

The folks at home don't need HD-TV to sense the seat of democracy has become a smug stereo mix of high horse belligerence, and the people's legislative house a private club-full of public liars. People can see as much - smell thru their own home screen lookin at the House, full scene, that the lead grand dame is a smugletarian switch who cares as much for readin' and writin' as my pet lizard.

Sweet dearest of humidified publishers, most humble vane-glorious of editors, distinguished exalted newsstand readers, snooty subscriber - when was the last time you ever thought, or said to your pre-teen peace-buttoned kid, "someday when you grow up you can run for the job and get to be the president; or vice-president; senator; how 'bout congressman?" Never! Unless you're upper-crusted from the super rich, and say, "Danny boy go play a round of golf and don't worry kid when you're old enough I'll get you a seat in the House."

We despise the fascist and yet a smudge pot maven on the payroll is today's congressional rule of law. We are all surrounded by smoke and spook-house mirrors, lest our knot-sea sight be clear that smoke unt mirrors were Herr Goebbel's tools: "Wear this yellow star , baby - all we want to do is see who you are." And then, "All aboard Yuden - it's the Treblinka-Babyar Express - tomorrow you will be safe from the bombs in a work camp."

C-SPAN, America's Network is fascist. They operate, as classic fascists always have, from above, and outside the law, without a license. Are you above the law, scoffer? Does the truth make you squirm?

Freedom of Speech is the essence of our country. It was the original frame-makers who said that, "Congress shall make no laws that abridge...;" and the Tele-Communication Laws of Political Broadcasting, written by a long departed Congress, extend that Freedom of Speech concept: Law 315 is equal-time opportunities, of which there aren't any - never were - because anything from a congress-person's nit-picking their nose in public to a dribble-bate qualifies as a broadcast news event - and is therefore exempt. So what.

Not-with-standing the internet that levels every field, all us smart guys of the deep care not a whit about telecommunications 315, for in the same laminate breath Congress protected the rights of any and all legally qualified individual candidates for federal office to pick their own time and date to create their own individual opportunity for exercising that unalienable unbridgeable right to give or make an uncensored political speech primarily on behalf of an informed electorate and of course their own campaigns.

This is Communications Law 312(A)(7), the natural extension of a street corner blast into everybody's living room where the potentially informed electorate might care to turn it on, tune in and/or drop off to sleep.

As the 315 equal-time opportunity for speech is diminished, so its guaranteed cashier's check and balance - 312(A)(7) increases; the more so with proliferating broadcast possibilities - and the unalienable right of any individual, and that individual's sacrosanct right to request access time of the studio of their choice for purposes of giving a televised political speech, and be given or sold that time, is not only protected but also has to be honored - or else loose yer licence to broadcast - because in Amedica, Freedom of Speech takes precedence even over Freedom of The New York Slimes to be the Pretzel of Wreckurd.

In the world's kulture, created by individuals - not committees - the world's most highest form of art is the High Art of Poesies. But under 312(A)(7), the main game of Contemporary America's Practical Art of Televised Politics, where Political Speech begins and is defined as our highest form thereof; under this regulated electronic framework for speech, our most basic freedom, is practiced the highest form of slickery and smudge thickery. What else is new?

Oh awaken potent candidates! Inventive Mothers Against Body Bags invoke 312(A)(7) - printo numbers parenz parenz - don't spell-lid out - your quest for time on air is fair pro-forma fair - the net cannot refuse to sell nor PBS refuse to give! You didn't know it is by law invoked these smudge-pot double dealers in spook-house mirrors slap this crap in your face every night - pollute your living room, besmirchin' their foes with self servin' electoral info-mercials.

How sonic that law protecting broadcast television's slime of election time was actually written and originally designed to protect unmitigated free political speech, with the privileged broadcast rights of those legally qualified candidates for federal office to present to the station of their choice a prerecorded 30 second blip, only an afterthought. How the times have been a chain-gin for the versed.

But over the past two decades, the Federal Ex-Communication Commission's policy, by its own self-promulgation - has been to protect the arrogant stations and indiscriminately railroad any and all outsider individual candidate's rights of unmitigated political speech into oblivion. These unknown candidates' frustraneous experience - the plight of these oblivionated potential public servants with the stations; and then, after complaint, their lost-at-sea redress before the FCC's Enforcement Division - 'tis a whole other grog, bubbling in the oven: "312(A)(7) or Siberia. Standing Look Out for Public Office Aboard the S.S. F.C.C. Treblinka."

Technically, C-SCAM is cable but the Commissioners have never seen fit, on their own, to make cable companies accountable to Freedom of Speech laws that were written before cable was invented because in many states, local franchise rules require the cable company to maintain a studio for some public access. But C-Span isn't local - it only plays out in the localities. C-Span uses the public's air waves to broadcast via satellite link. And these signal carrying air waves and licensed satellites indisputably belong to us guys - we, the people.

Incumbents are bent on holding office in order to keep up income - that's why we calls 'em incum-bents. Their self-serving laws of pacs and political bucks are always shifting gears every year so incumbents' re-election cart wheels stay well oiled with their motors running - Taxi-Pac-adermists - to cart away the greenbacks, whilst the outsider candidate's tireless cart wheels won't spin with the motor's distributor caps damaged or missing so you can't jump-start your campaign without your mother's social security check. And failure to declare that as loan guarantees a five thousand dollar fine from the Federal Election Commission, seizure of your property oar jail term. Such is the present day smudge pot ski-modum to the bottom.

But when the twenty-four hour, three hundred sixty-five days a year, continuously running, cable industry financed, federally focused, strictly politically self-dedicated C-SPAN network, whose dedication is gavel-to-gavel dubble channel coverage of both houses of the U.S. Congress and, in its holy spare time, is devoted to airing a mixture of voices in the civic extrapolation of our nation's public affairs, voluntarily adheres to 312(A)(7), which is that natural extension of our most basic of freedoms - a politically inspired street corner speech by a candidate - extended via television into everybody's living room - as noted above, the F.C.C. administered Law of Political Broadcasting, which the Congress wrote to afford any legally qualified individual that privileged right, on behalf of an informed electorate, to request and be awarded television time to give a political speech on behalf of his or her own campaign for federal office, then the whole elect-oral equestrian equation changes.

The broadcast live speeches of candidates would be on a level playing field. Whose afraid of a liddle speech-liddle speech? You out dare? Who is that ovalian woopie coming from inside the loop with tele-promptered verbal bat? Is it blessed grand eloquence of ancient variety (Yoo-Hoo)? Nah. It must be slothy loaf of tummy John Sununu; oar izit that great political zit - el prezo-dental's main-man-Dan of the single digit-gidget intelly-Q.

We, the people are long overdue for a leader and it's high time we outen these low-ball politico sludge dumpers whose authority is a mock-up of democracy. One likens the old Bush groups' fear of unmitigated political sprechens to a fade from their golfie's course - 'cause one good sprechen is all it's going to take, and then or now, fluke's delight-splash-home - bye bye parfait - it's par for their shoddy golf course of force 'cause from sea to shining sea the vast unregistered majority of the American people will have spoken.

One great airing of common sense clarity is all it's gunna take for lapsing and collapsing George Dubyuh Herby-Stalker's dream shield of dump-sight schemes.

Of course, in cahoots with anointed Fourth Estaters, their deck is stacked against innocense, truth, and the American way; but we are livin' on the good ship mother urf and every four years, for a moment in time, because of internet the cards are dealt out evenly, with rhyme.

Due eye dare - does Drenchman fear to scape the goat of slender humpty dumpty? Course knot! What a matchup! Who could resist such a strike - the Vicar of Care playing hide the Saddammy in all the downtown Derrys, and giving those Bushbergs a little taste of their own Basra.

Oh Humpt O' Dump-dough and all our election's campaign horses will rise again, unscratched, standing together-straight at the gate - like two-hundred million some-odd e-quill-bourne spermies, at once jolted up the falope, like Snake River sock-eye salmon going up the great Washington, scents of perfume in the fluid that signals their tales to get with wiggle - the oval door sheez ajar - to be like those oval-yin seeking spermies, up-right at the start, where our Bill of Rights drafters, this great nation's foundling fathers, the constitution's frame-makers, meant them to be: before the cart!

Ah! Sweet diversity! C-SPAN's Empty Road to the White House might even display a freshman from the Congress, galloping away, or Drenchman of (Yoo-Hoo) Depot, the smart guy seasoned, self-anointed with rhyme and reason.

The simple adherence by C-SPAN to the Freedom of Speech aspect of The Bill of Rights, as expressed in long time standing telecommunications law - the broadcast television privilege we afford any legally qualified individual candidates for federal office who, by virtue of their declaration, are afforded the optional privilege of cutting their own path with uncensored political speech on behalf of their candidacy and an informed electorate is actually the short and long term key for attaining lasting world peace and food chain harmony on the good ship mother earth because then those folks with the best inner-suits won't fear to come forward and state their own cases for nomination and election to public office.

Ah grasshoppers, you lurn so quick. That's why some of the states have such complicated thickets on the path-way to ballot status - those boney-fiddles of candidates; because, when you are on the ballot your bona fide candidacy cannot be questioned by the TV station and, by law, the stations must give or sell you the time on air in prime. When was the last time you heard a spontaneous, unrehearsed political speech on TV by any stand alone, individual candidate?

Not since New Hampshire in '88 when the Unknown Candidate booked himself via 312(A)(7) request, a half hour speech, chopped down by the station from original request for a full, three hour evening, slow talkin' with the folks at home, on New Hampshire PBS. Illegally, with willfull erroneousness, the station ripped the candidate for more than five hundred dollars in studio time and then provided college students who had never been on the floor of a TV studio before that night to operate the two TV cameras. In the newspaper's TV program listings they had the slot listed, Motor Week, instead of, "Political Speech" so the only audience was oil-change freaks, or people chance called to be clicking their remote.

The candidate, registered with Abe Lincoln, estimated five hundred people in New Hampshire saw him speak. Of them, half couldn't vote for him, being either demos, kids, or unregistered participants. Of the remaining two hundred fifty, one hundred twenty, give or take a few, were registered repubbies, and of them, forty-two did cast their ballot for him. The most votes tabbed with the least bucks spent. Hmmm.

What's wrong with the write-in ballot, grasshopper? Nothing. Basic literacy is paramount in a richly diverse, informed electorate - the key to a functioning democracy, and citizens ought to be capable of and should be required to write down the candidate's name or they don't deserve to have them as public servants.

But from the wood-be candidate's point of view, when you can't get on the ballot because it's too soon for petitionary application - or you get bounced off three days after you get on for failure to dot a "T" on yer petition - or the state doesn't have ballots but does its political business very old fashioned with living and/or school room caucus - unless you're anointed by the big-time Netties in advance, and they won't anoint or bless any candidacy unless said candidate has first gone 'round corrupting their own character, begging bucks off richly tentacled scummies, whelp, yer out of focus, sucker and out of luck before you start because you can't prove who you are!

The stations look at your candidacy and say, "Prove it." Alll aboard wood-bees - your campaign train is loaded - leavin' in a blink baby down the campaign trail to Treblink.

The fascist smudge potter immediately hollers, "Then everyone would want to speak." So what. With the internet, everyone can speak. Out of two hundred sixty million Americans, every four years, approximately a couple hundred citizens by-pass the dead-fishy smells of local political pros, and declare themselves candidates for the top Oval job by calling a pretzel conference and filing their committee name with the Federal Election Commission.

Is that twice less than .0001 %? Not a whole lot of candidates for president, and of these unknown wood-bees, how many have a website on behalf of their candidacy?

In the last twenty years one can count on one hand the actual number of requests to TV stations for access for purposes of giving a political speech that the stations or the FCC has had to deal with, from outsider candidates for the office of president of the United States. Count on two hands the complaints of candidates for the house and senate.

The political smudge pot smoke and mirror handlers know all about 312(A)(7) law - it's what they invoke with the stations when they want to jam some more mud slingery down your throat the night before you're supposed to re-ratify their social contract by casting your vote. Of course we can't blame the majority who choose not to participate. It's bad enough their children are made Commandment breakers or cannon fodder and body-bagged without a prayer - one cannot fairly expect people to vote for more of this when - channel to channel - they don't see a remote clicks bit-a-diff between any and all the un-candid-scapes.

Are the outsider candidates for federal office cognizant of their rights to free access for purposes of speech with the rate-less PBS network? Yes and know. In 1988, that so-called fighter for all the little guys, Mark Green, ran in a democratic primary against the millionaire, John Dyson. J.D. actually spent six million dollars on broadcast television commercials. But Green won the primary on a shoe-string knotted by tons of Nadar-kite volunteers who had, unpaid, given their candidate thousands of hours doing campaign drudgery, like urging demos to please vote in the primary and give the senatorial nod to their leader, Mark Green, the consumer's consummate battler for all the little guys.

During the campaign run for election Marco Energetica was all over the place conducting bizarre, confusing media hypes, like running off at the mouth in the hall outside Alfonzi Scumato's office with live baby pig, accusing the incumbo rodent faced pack-rat senator of either being too much or not enough of a porker for the good citizens of New York. Green's TV commercials were a series of back and white still shots - Marko chasing down the street with mentor Ralph Nader; Marco playing round-ball with somebody's kids. Marko lost.

Green was entitled to request as much as three hours with PBS state-wide - and could have spent an evening with the voters, surrounded by wife and family. All he had to do was ask! Carefully, he could have shredded the incumbent rodent's record and stated outright what every New York state voter, whether demo or repo knows: that Alphonse D'Amato was a sad replacement for Jacob Javits who could have served out one last term, were it not for the ultimately fatal health issues raised by Scumato!

Green could have lauded Jacob Javits who was universally respected. Liberal Jewish repubbies, feeling their favorite emotion - guilty - would have crossed party lines and voted for Green. Today he'd be the junior senator from New York State. But any candidate ignorant of their rights to televised speech under the law, or unwilling to exercise those rights doesn't deserve to hold a federal office. Besides, it pays to lose.

Lenora Fulani characterizes herself as the mayor of Harlem. She ran for president of USA in 1988. She achieved ballot status in all fifty states and furthermore claims that her party, back in '91, the New Alliance Party (NAP), is the only progressive party of the progressive democratic left. All she needed to establish Federal Communication Commission bonafides entitling her to legally request and be granted hours of prime time on the whole PBS network was ballot status in ten states.

Achieving ballot status, that undeniable proof of candidacy, in only ten states, satisfies the FCC's qualification for media broadcast access nationwide to give a political speech. Drenchman,the Unknown Candidate, our man from (Yoo-Hoo), wrote Fulani a letter, challenging her to a series of debates for the New Alliance Party nomination, the debates to be held on 356 PBS stations throughout the summer of '88. What a refreshing alternative we could have had to those milk-toast panels of Demo would-bees!

She wrote back to the Candid-One that her own people had worked hard petitioning for her ballot status and she wasn't about to share her platform or even meet with anyone she'd never heard of - and that furthermore, the Candid-One appeared counter productive to her NAP movement, specifically the post-Jacksonian realignment of Blax, Jacks, Jewzies and Black-eye, pea-pie, neo-zapped yippies from within. It didn't matter to her that she was virtually guaranteed the nod from her own personal poli-party, regardless what was happening, or what could have been taking place on the politically televised, officially recognized, anointed landscape of pre-convention candidacies.

She either lost out on a great opportunity for reaching the American voting public, via television , which is what these leftie-pinko groups all claim they seek; or she really doesn't care to reach the American people and would much rather be running around the country - qualified for matching funds, having raised 5-K in twenty states - acting like a candidate - always going to the next speech engagement, complaining "the system" is rigged against her getting any message out when the fact isÑLenora Fulani-babe doesn't have any message, except, ÒJoin my party and work under me!Ó

Fulani made a little pre-electoral stink, claiming equal opportunities under FCC law 315, and she sued The Leg of Vermin Voters for access to the Democratic Party's debate platforms, claiming The Leg had no legal grounds for shutting her out because she was on the ballot. What a load of fascist crap! All Fulani had to do was ask the PBS network for her own time. She could have requested an hour for herself for every hour the demos were busily undy-bating Gary Hart.

Fulani was made aware of her rights. The Unknown Candidate sent her a photo-copy of the actual law along with a weeks-in-advance, lost in the memory shuffle, front page press preview about the political speech that our favorite dark horse, the Unknown Canto, gave on New Hampshire PBS. Fulani-babe is a professional candidate who only appears to be for the reel. Ah, lads and ladies, such sad lip-offs inside yea oldie, Facsist Bureaucracy Infiltrated (FBI) pregressive bereft.

But you could be telling your kids from the time they're rug rats, " listen up you paraplegic pip-squeak you wanna be president when yer old enough fine then wheel yourself into the C-SPAN studio some afternoon and give a live speech on behalf of yourself. You can even use the hook-up to take calls from the citizenry at large but because yer a candidate you are entitled to have it arranged so you only get questions from reporters in newsrooms all over the country who might wanna write about you. Plus it's a good way to avoid partisan squabbles when yer just starting out."

"I gave you thirty bucks to make buttons so you could run for seventh grade class president and that's it! I've had it with donations for your political campaigns. Talk some sense to the folks and bring along your toy tow truck to hoist a copy of Volume 17 Code of Federal Regulations - tell the voters that in your spare time as president you'd see all the coda gets rewritten and simplified - who knows, maybe some simpleton shlep will be inspired to check off a buck or two direct so you can catch the next greyhound otta here and go hopping down the campaign trail."

Generally, incumbent candidates run away from straight-up unblinking eye-ball to eye-ball confrontations with the public. Televised panels with advanced questions by the select few are classified: "Debates" but it turns out that's the only semantic debatable because seasoned big-buck backered candidates prefer the public remain uninformed and keeping them in the dark is the first commandment of smudge pottery and spook house mirrors that emanates from beltway city.

The whole pork-barrel pig-sucker congress of the United States knows all about this convenient glitch in the structure of telecommunication law which keeps 312(A)(7) from being applied to cable, specifically C-SPAN's network, which is, upon application of the law, clearly that main-gate starting out place for political speech by declared presidential candidates - the one cable network where the feasibility exists for a giant intellect strapped in a wheel chair to have as fair an opportunity with an informed, voting electorate as anyone else!

Of course the pork-barrel pig suckers were euphoric, both on the C-SPAN and on the floor of the House, publicly patting themselves on the back when they made it law, requiring access ramps into federal buildings for the wheelie crowd, while ignoring access into that most public of places possible for the electronic transmission of political speech - your living room.

It's obvious that a lone person, sans command team of well paid lawyers, cannot straighten out this glitch which the Federal Ex-Communication Commissioners, feigning ignorance, have left in the law. And the C-SPAN operators won't even acknowledge any candidate's request for access. But all day long C-SPAN is tellin' the shut-in news junky folks at home, along with kids in schools and news room journalists in Duboink City, "We are covering everything - all the candidates - isn't America great?" Thus that old alll aboard bell-wringer: fascist!

This issue was presented/raised with the folks at C-SPAN back in 1988. Like Herr Goebbles, they scoffed. So what's a lowly candidate to do what with the chummy relationships these scummies maintain with print journalists on their morning call-in interviews; and the same chumminess with various congress-persons they have on for their evening call-ins - the free standing individual American freedom fighter needs a whole team of pro-bono (dirty word) lawyers willing to go the long frustraneous haul on the road to hauling the C-SPAN scammers into open court because this is beyond the pale of any sing-you-lurn individ-ual - even for Drenchman, falsity's comical stripper from the deep - it can't be a done deal until the next century unless you gottum big buckskins, news-sprint and/oar broadcast media support.

(ed note: this was written in Feb-March 1991. Since then we have the greatest miracle of the soon-to-be-over 20th century : the internet / www, so as you read, keep in mind the politics of media has been irreversably altered since ancient 1991. With an imac dvd computer, over the internet, a citizen can be become a world wide television broadcaster w/ out permission from FCC).

Broadcast media support? The Netties? Ah, Netties, dontcha see the writing on the wall? Yer loosing your viewership because, like a clock, every two years the paid political handlers sledge your audience with their insulting smudge-pot schlock - low grade stuff you would never let fly in a flee market - so a young couple, saving for a house throws their arms up in total disgust and decides to supplement their VCR with basic cable.

Coming veddy soon: double-digital audio video. The tape thaddle play all day long on a thirty million instructions per second work-station. We're talkin' fully colored monitor screened hardware, combatively priced to sell next to a used car with a dented fender. Netties! What will happen to you then when the six inch screen within the screen is silently tuned on CNN, or Internet Amateur News - in case of juicy plane crash or live fire? Your only guaranteed audience will be that vast and growing underclass of people on public assistance who can't afford to be cablified. Poor Netties, lets have another round of golfies - between the links you can sell 'em a Benz instead of Benzedrine.

Netties, dear Netties, how many unknown candidates wrote you letters, looking for a little fair play and some access that you would not bother to even grace with respectful answer? Suck the cable co., windless Netties, yer stuck between a black rock and a hard attache case with all your transgressions come back to haunt you from the gravity of sinking viewership. Ah, ladies and lads, the stodgiest of headless, low rung Netties knows they're on the short end of the shtick; furthermore, all the Netties know full well that anything relating to rules unt regs that govern political speech - that rattle chit-chattery before the FCC's bar - cannot happen without their own opinions being dooley noted.

Soon the best thirty flickers from every year '30 thru '90 will be instant hard copy, available 3-D'd on a plastic disk that fits in the palm of your hand. A liddle kid will crawl out of bed on a Saturday morn; slide up to the screen, click the on button and say, "toons." Up will pop in 3-D eye the looney-est! Poor Netties.

How 312(A)(7) would play out on C-SPAN is obvious and the application of these written broadcast laws in their present construction is simpatico: the darker your campaign horse, the longer the lead time you have to speak before caucus and balloting begins. Candidates get advance listing in the C-SPAN Gazette, besides days-in-advance notice on the TV screen so news rooms, etc., from around the nation can assign their political reporters to tune in. The option of taking calls, or of taking calls from people who identify themselves as journalists is up to the candidate.

Worst case scenario: a legally qualified though totally zonko candidate repeatedly requests ninety minute blocks of prime time during which the information presented qualifies said candidate for the position of dog catcher on an atoll. In that case editorials would appear all over the country suggesting to C-SPAN that enough has been heard from the zero - it was sad vaudevillian relief at first - but enough is enough. That is the worst case scene, the experience of which I am sure we would all live through.

The thirty-two incumbent candidates for reelection to the senate every two years could be challenged on C-SPAN's senate channel by uncorrupted outsiders because senators get money from all over the country so people from all over the country ought to have the opportunity to see who is running against who and exercise their televised opportunity to support some outsider candidate's senatorial campaign!

Speech. Are we afraid of speech? C-SPAN is. Or those behind them are. They have said, "We aren't under the FCC. Those laws don't have anything to do with us because we aren't licensed by FCC so get the hell out of here Mr. Wood-bee candidate we gave you a five minute slot interview as we saw fit - told you in advance it would be a guaranteed spontaneous, unplanned event and then suckered you with tripe like, "What´s your southern strategy? So what. Beat it before we call a cop." What are they afraid of?

The above quote is paraphrase of events as they actually did take place. The C-SPAN would not allow our Unknown Canto to display his name and address at the end of their grudging five minny glitch interview. They refused to allow him even one minute out of the guaranteed five to share or even display a few lines of his, "spoken poem writ for all mankind," and they heavy handedly disallowed his statement which justified his being there - that from the Oval Office, doing an all channels world wide dusk until dawn Homeric spoken thriller with every line a delicate or indelicate sensible, multi-lingual rhyme - World Pizza - will our prezo gib all a slice and establish World Peace by dawn is feasible, but that such an innovative extrapolation of the global village concept is not in the cards with our Canto only a private citizen.

Censorship of political speech is clearly against all the broadcast Laws of Political Broadcasting and anyone pretending that C-SPAN isn't broadcasting does not adhere to the concept of Bush as an upper crust lumpkin who should be dumpsterized first chance you get with the trash.

Do they fear the candidate who has been asking for the opportunity to spend an evening with the voting citizenry since the candidate was old enough to qualify? Yes. Do they fear that someone is going to spell it out plain for the American people? Yes. Do they fear the candidate who wants to set up - upon election - 1600 Penn-Silly-Vain Yoo Scan - an eighty-channel basic cable hook-up gratis for every household in America, focusing on all the day-to-day business of the federal government's executive branch - White House cabinet meetings, all the top and mid-level meetings taking place in all the stand-ing commissions, with camera crew on watch in every hallway, so the citizens can see what's going on in the lobby. Is that their fear, dear patient reader? Lobby is short for lobster. Shine the light and they disappear; or scurry along on the cocktail circuit.

Do they fear the above-inspired American man who quietly created his own television script, characterized as spoken poem written to be spoken chanted sung for all mankind on all channels world-vid TV? Are these status unquotables afraid of the man with written down script that foretold, twenty years in advance, when-the-war-where-the-war-how-the-war-why-the war, and over what the war would be fought; and how Armageddon, The Movie would end, including who would be doing the fighting.

Does the status-unquota-billy-club fear our friendly unknown Drenchman from the Dep, whose life support begins with keeping fit the unsplit atom; and who, explaining with simple diagram how to cut your rent in half and disinflate the whole world's economy so that in forty years beer cost a nickle and space travel free, will clean the air, scape the goats and blow away the scummies with clarity? Go already. Safe journey.

Are they fearin' the plan of the man in the chair who will, upon election, jam down the throats of congress law allowing the chief executive to contact, with written disclaimer, nearly every citizen ever secretly scooped and profiled by our government, so that upon signature of the citizen on the enclosed disclaimer, absolving the government of liability from foul play, every one who is interested - without seeing outright who the dirty rat was - though one can safely assume a profile from a high school history class must have been generated by the teacher - can find out for themselves how/why after six years of straight A's in college with two degrees and a foreign language, they didn't get the job but ended up instead, pumping gas at their father-in-law's truck stop in Hackensack. Is that their fear? Golly, what else is new?

Are they scared the coming boss of Oval office will start his own daily newspaper with all the best pics and juiciest international news briefs scooping everyone else's so en masse, people start canceling their Gurgle, Slimes, and Toast subscriptions. Does it say anywhere in our constitution that the prezo can't edit, publish and write for his own newspaper?

Are the C-SPAN fascists, and those behind them worried that said, Unknown Candidate, will get on the air and tell the ho-hum viewing electorate about plans for his own TV, Live At The White House, an after dinner united family talk show he intends on hosting four nights a week so everybody gets tomorrow's top stuff right from the horses' mouth during the monologue. And follow that with, "In case the ratings slip, I won't get re-elected," and then dead-pans, as he did for me yesterday, an imitation couch potato tellin' his old lady, "Hey Sarah, it's the guy who was on the ship forty days and forty nights."

Yeah, Drenchman scares all of them. But the Netties ought to like a show like that. Which ever Nettie has the lowest ratings gets first pick in the draft with proceeds going to the gnational trust.

Ah, such pertinent digress, dear fellows and gals.

Didn't the Iraqi people deserve the same chance as the Japanese? In 1945 the Jap-sin-easy, ruled by war-mongering fascists, were a frightened traumatized nation. Many committed hara-kiri. The Iraqi people, excluding the fascist Baathists, don't have to fear for their lives from us.

While we were busily setting up the baathists with computers, did we bother to hack our way in from the embassy lines and copy-to-disk their list of domestic spies in Saddam's employ for domestic represh and home rule by fear? Or is U.S. intelligence gathering more selective over there? Those disks should be printed out and published in post bellum Iraq. Then Iraq's peace loving minority can straighten out their barbaric internal affairs the way they've been doing for centuries, the old fashioned way.

Since when do we commit our blood to war and not have total victory our goal with surrender unconditional? Not since Veit Nam! How many lives would have been saved had surrender been total without air conditioning. "Stand still varmints. Hold it right where you are. Now, unbuckle yer holster, and toss your helicopter, truck and tank keys, along with your ammo on the pile."

Without unconditional surrender, we didn't win anything! Our high school kids could be writing them a simplified democratic constitution with representatives chosen by and from every village. The chosen reps could serve in a congress for a one or two year berm and from that body, elect someone to represent them on the world's stage. Outlaw the army, like we did for the Japanese. One per cent of their budget only for civil defence, with maybe a shoeless volunteer militia, and we unconditionally guaran-tee their sovereignty. Next case.

It is the first Sunday after the Hundred Hours War and Meet The Pretzel host, Garrick Utley, queries the folks at home, "We are going to protect Kuwait, so does that make Kuwait a protectorate?" Great! A commonwealth like Guam, or Puerto Rico. The Kuwaiti Emir can use his Boeing fleet for ninety-nine dollar round trip fares from Newark to Kuwait City. Such a deal - palace tours - all one hundred rooms with the emir himself leading the way - "here is my own private bath. As you can see, though my tub is merely marble, cut from a solid block, the commode, including the seat, is solid gold from the floor bolts up. All of my door knobs are diamond studded, because my palms itch." Hmm. Where oh where is the toilet paper dispenser? Must be that svelte box of Kleenex.

Having liberated Kuwait, shouldn't it have been for the Kuwaiti people - instead of the selfish Emir? Those Kuwaitis, on vacation when the scum-bags from Baghdad began their pillage, could return immediately. The disco dancers who fled the country instead of going underground might stay on, for a while, with their emirish stipends where they are. Our high school kids can write the Kuwaitis a democratic update of their 1962 constitution, too - what a New World Hors Doeuvre! The Kuwaitis can hold a referendum next year and vote their beloved Emir the powers of Queen Elizabeth.

The Secretary of State flies around with pretense of solving the Palestinian issue. More faque smokery, veils, and cheers from behind the shears. When the Israelis hold an election, The New Yawk Slimes always notes, in its backpages, that the actual vote for whichever party is going to be in power is decided by a Holy man - the Lubavitcher Rebbe in Brooklyn. Were the Bushites really intent on solving the Middle East problem they need not go farther than Eastern Parkway, in Brooklyn, New York. But even the exalted president of United States can not get an audience, munching on pork rinds. What a supreme diplomatic gesture impossible for George: request a ritual bath with the Rebbe.

The Israelis get six hundred million in U.S. reparation bucks for a few civilian casualties and a couple skud-bruised neighborhoods. Stipulation: Saddam is off limits. Come Ramadan time, or shortly thereafter, one of Saddam's doubles is going to Mecca. Headlines will read: Saddam gets religion. His first cousin, Ali Hassan will be installed new boss, and have your men from Mossad watching the airport in Montevideo.

Baker flies home from middle east. On the super secure in-flight telephone he talks to Chief Bushberg of the Buddy-boy Defunct Imagination. "George, I went number two in King Fahd's private bathroom. You gotta fly over and see for yourself the man has a commode solid gold from the floor up - even the seat. And you should have seen the tissue dispenser that good old boy King Fahd has. George is she one hell of a pretty little Saudi thing." As though a mild closet anti-semiticle white boy from Texas is going to solve any of the world's problems trading dumb skud-yid-oven jokes with a bunch of spineless sheiks. Turns out Bushman's New World Orders are yesterday's unimaginative ripening crap in a fresh, sound bitten package.

We hear it all the time: Jordan is Palestine. Nope. Jordan is Israel, and the east bank of that ancient river Jordan, the Volga. From there, the first twenty miles, heading toward Mecca is Brighton Beach East. Iraq is Palestine. Allah Bach-bra! Ship King Hussein, Little H., the Hashemite King who claims an uncircumcised decent from Mohammed a camel's ride across the desert to Baghdad, soon-to-be former main-place mall of Big H., where all those big time Palestinian dudes like Nidal and Yasir Arafat are hanging out already, and that's it until next week.

Meanwhile, King Hussein's younger brother, the Prince (Portly H.) can stay in Amman and get free oil from suddenly soon to be richer bigger brother, Little H.

Creative map making.

The Iraqis themselves would probably be lots happier with a fresh face, like an English speaking, friendlier, Kingly Hussein who gets front page respectability in The Daily Arabble street sheet, and actually still has a few connections on the world stage. They should have a non-binding referendum tomorrow.

The so-called prompt for this Armageddon was a dispute over the Ruum-hooh-ah oil field, was it not? So it's bound to be a bone in some Iraqi's throat for a long time to come.

Therefore, the only solution is for us to take the place and rename it Zappy-Pappy Galveston Yeast. What a great Amedican oasis in the sand. Set sails for the veils - bud light and broth of brothel on demand.

There blood was spilled for freedom so the spoil of oil belongs to us, and should go under U.S. flag for nine dollars a barrel to Eastern Europe and the third world. Bye cartel. Hedge the money. We drill an additional hundred wells, not so much to glut the market, but to satisfy Chief Thousand Lights' cigarette-boat gluttony. We save the north slope caribou and King George gets to drill himself out of office. For Zappy-Pappy, drilling a well head is like Holy Matrimony.

The Ruum-hooh-ah oil we bring to Amedica is twenty dollars a barrel at the dockside. We use these bucks to partly retire our pre-war debt, lower Social Security taxes, or something else straight up and accountable like jobs for the homeless, building houses; or we could dedicate the oil bucks to solar development and budgetary balance of the national trust because we owe so much.

Then after our treasury is replenished and the Ruum-hooh-ah oy-el field is dry, we can send Indiana Jones down on a rope ladder with halogen lamp on his head to make sure the cavernous room is empty. Then we can enlarge the well-heads to funnel down all the soils of Chernoble. All our Chernobles. Plenty room down there for everybody's hot goop. We push solar development for Arabic day time use - electric camels, hydroponic lettuce and tomatoes, air conditioned factories to compete with the Taiwanese - and geothermal at night. The land of Saud will glow in the dark. Saddam's eternal light. Next.

Demand-diplomacy is the only kind they understand. As long as we have a half million kids on the ground it's time to start disarming everyone except the Saudis and Israelis. It's time we demand a dollar from every barrel pumped for an Arabian development fund to raise the standard of living throughout the whole region. Ten years down the road we can have war games like the Olympiad - between now and then replacing the war heads with ketchup because this is it - we are in the aftermath of Armageddon, round one.

Unified lateral disarmament. Slips right in with the protocols of Article X in our missile treaty of '87: uncap war heads; remove delicate gyro-targeting guidance devices (just in case) for possible use someplace else, recap empty war heads; launch two hundred missiles apiece indiscriminately into oceans of choice.

Ahoy napping whales born walkin' 'n talkin' free, able to sing B-major concertos immediately, counting from one thru ten with first flukes flapping. Ahoy! Look out from above great nippers - from Article X in the missile treaty, death comes without churn warning. Oh beauteous sea-top napping beast - smart guys of the deep - ahoy great denizen - the dolphins dead floating are mother nature's disaster beacon - swim away! Be clear! Dive deep oh beat Saddam's crude blessing! Fear yonder black cloud's downward spouting burst is nay rain's fun-time pelting scratch but poison sludge to seal your own spout breath. Ahoy!

It isn't like the olden days, according to tales gramp whales would sing way back when - in deep sea did harmony -when men went down to the sea in break-upable ships; and onto the sea-top with wooden boats, and steel sticks with ropes - an old fashioned whale had a choice - play their deadly game for chicken licks or swim away - even on the sea-top - swim straight away into freshening winds, or swim down deep into the current; or ply the sea top in a hurricane. The heaviest gale, with forty foot waves, is only a frolic for briney old Lev the whale.

Now the world and written word face an ecological disaster the magnitude of which the world's people have yet to comprehend: the cash-in-advance (CIA) combined blessing of Saddam and his secret, one-berm White House back-water buddy - our officially elected seven minute dummy of the war's hors doeuvre!

When your furnace breaks down in the middle of winter you call for an expert so a thirty dollar clogged element becomes a brand new sixteen hundred dollar furnace fully guaranteed that cost the contractor three hundred seventy-five. The oil well fire putter-outers aren't being paid by the barrel saved - they get their pound of salt by the hour. Heavy grain kosher salt works real good when stifling oil on fire in the kitchen. So does Arm and Hammer, though mother Mary says the heavy weight Kosher salt is better.

Load C5A's with giant sheets of stainless steel, coated on both sides with asbestos. At fire sight, using Swedish steam, roll sheet into shape of tube. Pop rivet edge. Install bracing flange, like flower petals, coming out from all sides of bottom edge to provide stability so huge empty cylinder can stand free. Use big-time helicopter to install empty stack over bleeding burning oil well. Immediately dump tons of salt, wet sand, and baking soda into tube. Lots of ways to do that. Use Iraqi labor wherever possible. Put out twenty fires a day or mother nature, G-d's prime house cleaner pre-emptor is going to make you pay! "Oar (Yoo-Hoo) when yer Fodder gets hohm - yoo win trubble!"

Most beauteous lady editor suggests save other ten sure fire-out methods for follow up writing. Humble author agrees. Asbestos dressed Iraqi prisoners with kitchen mittens can remove land mines and hot debris. Step two: unroll one hundred fifty square yard inch thick asbestos blankets.

Aren't three hundred million tons of smouldering scrap iron and steel on the ground reason enough to up-slap a smelter and portable rolling mill right on the spot - to make what the Kuwaitis and Iraqis need for rebuilding their infrastructures : I-beams for buildings, pipe-line, fresh derricks and rail-road ties? Whether you stamp them U.S.S. or Bethlehem, a girder is a girder and you can only steal so much.

Armageddon is the world's last war. The world senses that G-d (Yoo-Hoo) decided it's up to us to insure there won't be any more stiff arm hors doeuvres for the getting. Regardless, after the generals release their eyes-only film delights, thus enabling Disney to distribute world-wide, Armageddon, The Movie, is there anywhere a show time people who would even parade in uniform, much less stand behind any tin-pan pseudo despot boss with redistricting designs on their next-door neighbor's diamond mine?

There isn't a tin-pan despot alley anywhere in today's world where such a scenario could even develop - even with permission from the official dip on duty. What do we do for an encore? Hawk a desert fire sale: step right up - slightly used T-52's, still under factory warranty - scratch-and-dents in showroom condition - quick-sale reduced from four million per copy to eight hundred grand. Time payments for qualified buyers.

What we also ought to do is get together with our brideless friends, the Russians and do some week-end world-wide gun collecting. That will keep all of these ribbon-chests and attendant dips, gainfully employed for another twenty years without having to go around killing people.

What the Soviet Union needs are supply demand capitalist structures for goods and services. The Marshall plan reversed. Quickly we should to be setting them up with K-Marts, Wall-Marts, Sears stores and catalogues - then round-the-clock shipping C5-A transports loaded for Russian bear with everything we take for granted when stepping inside the door. Place big signs at the check out lanes - start your own needle factory. What do they have for us in exchange? Gold. Lots of gold in Fort Knox-ski-grad. Using this same approach with supermarkets would cause a happiness riot. Ah well, salud a salad of common sense-sickle solutions.

We are the youngest nation in the world with the oldest standing government. All of our ex-presidents get to be living ex-presidents, and of all the countries, we have the most ex-prezos. Our nation was founded on freedom and our citizens are entitled to their own beliefs. Pray on Saturday? Up to you. Pray on Sunday, and believe you are guilty of original sin? Also can do. Every individual is entitled to their own life, sliver of liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

Today, we are a nation of original debt, but regardless your belief, the debt against our future generations is a giant sin against our natural free spirit. At birth your social security number is recorded on your certificate before you've even been given a name! First thing the doctor says, "Yer in the hole kid, you owe." Say whaat? Eye yam in the hole? You a little baby haven't even had the deep rubbed from your eyes and the doctor slaps your greasy little tushy and hollers, "Pay." We are a nation swimming in debt - close to twenty thousand dollars for every man woman and unborn child in the nation.

Had this third world war which involved the whole world turned out differently - Armageddon went so fast - Saddam would be over here. Yep. That's the sad smudge-pot line our kids were fed before they went to Nam. But back then the kids learned fast it was a scam - and within a week farm boys had their side pockets loaded with little glass jugs of opium. Ho Che Min was a virgin.

But imagine Saddam the war-winner and over here, astride a khaki skud riding down Fifth Avenue on St. Patrick's Day. We'd all be body-bagged. Surplus body-bags are out there, depending on who you talk to - great for riggin' a rain-proof back yard hammock, haulin' a double load of dirty laundry, or keepin' yer compost dry. And those Iraqi kids made smart-rock fodder, or cross-haired by Saddam's death squads - don't they have mothers and fathers? Or do we skip over those hundred thousand dead Iraqis scattered around in freshly plowed berms until storm winds blow a leg sand clean for a fly feed, or scorpion's dessert.

Only the innocent are called to Allah's bosom. But for their families here on the earth we could have bagged and tagged the first fifty thousand bodies found on the ground whilst they were still identifiable. Captured Iraqi GI's could have dug grave rows for the decimated shells of their brothers' battered souls - what great lasting scenery for Armegeddon, The Movie - we could have seen to it their personal papers were laminated and attached beneath a Crescent marker, the commonnest of respect for the dead on behalf of the living.

Sure those poor Iraqi kids, like you, and me, have mothers and fathers, too; family in Baghdad, or some small town, waiting and praying with all their hearts, wondering the whereabouts of their poor conscripted sons - hopefully only missing in action MIA, secretly relocated, unable to telephone, washing dishes in a Kuwaiti restaurant, a part of King George's new world hors doeuvres.

Saddam our Commander-in-Chief? Whew. All those Wall Street Gurgle readers driving Mercedes would have to relinquish their vehicles because Mercedes Benz is Iraq's official Fourth Estate government car. You'd have to drive Saddam Deville. Congress would convene in Saddamington, and during Saddam's yearly State of Saddamy speech, all the fascists would appropriately cheer. Saddam golf balls - thwack - would have to be outlawed, but Saddam cigarette lighters - guaranteed to blow up in the face of your enemy - (his backfired) would still be around.

Saddam face-up on a twenty dollar Saddam peso. Saddammy mommy on a fifty. Saddam's cousin, Ali Hassan on a five spot. Why not? People don't even bother to pick Abe up off the ground anymore. Wanna slurpie? Saddam-11. Burger? Saddam-King Home of the Chopper. The TV ad would show the truck's tail gate slamming and the announcer would proclaim: Saddam Tough! Shuwop bop a loo bah - Saddam bang boom! And anyone complaining would be taken away to the Hussein Asylum.

Desert Shield sweat shirts are clearance priced for quick sale, but the Desert Storm stuff is holding its own. The Saddam toilet paper has been moving well enough, though I heard the ink runs. Can Saddam be trusted anywhere? Seventy-seven billion squandered dollars in forty-two days - e pluribus saddamam - the man should get honorable mention on a savings bond. Can't trust them, either.

Nightline and a Middle East expert from the University of Chicago tells Koppel's audience, "The irony of history will be that with all the blood shed and billions spent, our government was propping up Saddam." He's nervous, speaking these hot-line remarks. As he talks his clear brow furrows red. Hell is going to be paid over this one.

The phones to Koppel and ABC ring off the hook well into the next day because the common folk, at home watching, have to be boiling. Koppel is a an intelligent, genuinely believable, decent front-line fellow, like Walter Cronkite. In my mind, I slip back almost twenty years ago to Flamingo Park, Miami, the summer of '72. The Demos and Repos were both holding their conventions a few blocks from the city park which had been designated official protest area for zippies, hippies, yippies, and all the other war protesters like Vets from Nam against the war.

I'd arranged to do some free lance string reporting for the UPI, so I could both observe and maybe participate, not that I expected the UPI to pick up and wire any piece of mine as long as I was characterizing George McGovern as senatorily seedy and H.R. Haldeman a brush cut punk.

But I had the appropriate plastic to get me past the gate, and the day before the demo convention started I was hanging out with a couple other stringers I'd met at the edge of Flamingo-protest park, by the CBS communications truck, leaning against the satellite dish when I first met the man who I later found out was also called the Cosmic Wrapper.

He was there in convention protester mufti - long hair, full beard, crushed hat from the Truman era, save-the-earth T-shirt, an alligator briefcase he claimed to have brought back from Veit Nam, a knapsack loaded with books he said were copy-written prophesy, and an electronic, battery driven megaphone slung on his shoulder for doing battle with the big boys - all of this to push his mother for U.S. president with James Brown their choice designate for vice-prezo, and lest we forget, Richard Nixon for secretary of state. I was minding my own business - talking with Ike Pappas, his CBS producer, and their camera crew - when this hairy dude comes by and interrupts us with, "Vote Levinson /Brown. Chicken soup in every pot, and ribs, too." "Hot pants in the White House."

Generally, someone enters your space and breaks up your conversation, you humor them maybe, or tell them to split, but this guy was warm, friendly, drug free, and articulate. Then he starts singing McCartney's, "Let It Be," and says, "That's my mother Paul wrote the song for. While I was writing this book," (he reaches into his knapsack and takes out the most amazing literal work of art I ever saw. G-d only knows how many pages were carefully hand lettered in double columns, like the old testament - but with all the words broken down into "silly-bulls" and spelled out the way they sound). "My mother would say, "Tired of writing? Don't worry - here's a twenty dollar bill go out and have some fun." Let it be. The letter! That'ss my mother, Mary, he's singing about."

Who could argue with the walking poem? Not this itinerant string reporter from the famished Twainlit Street family of South Bronx Journalista's. This was the day before the Demos were supposed to start convening around George Mig-riven, and the dude complained to us that security around the convention center was super tight.

Karati-kid-poem was wild. He tells me, "I showed up at the gate and had a long chat with this plain clothes security guy who was wearing a Hawaiian shirt - about who I am with my spoken poem for all man-kind and my mother's running for prezo because I'm not old enough and the guy still wouldn't let me past that outside gate. He was a decent man - but what a rip."

Just then a cab that me and the other stringers had called came along so we decided what the heck and told Kid-poem, "Come along with us - ride in the back seat - we have passes for getting thru the outside gate and we'll get you in." Of course it was a piece of cake at the vehicle gate and we drove right thru.

Now I'm on the convention floor with the dude and he's wandering around sort of with me but about ten feet away. I was checking out some Cuban Americans who were putting the finishing touches on the podium when lo and behold, along comes Walter Cronkite, without guards. Kid-poem is on-the-spot. He says, "Hi Walter, my mother is running for president." Then he proceeds with a fast wrap and shoots Walter some fresh slogans, "Fire yours and hire ours/write down Levinson-Brown - with a Bic banana - bah-nah nah!" Cronkite cracks up. What have I wrought on the world's events! The kid has got himself an audience with the Executive Producer of CBS News.

I'm hanging ten feet away, straining to hear them talk. Kid-poem whips out his prophetic self published book and shows Walter where the demise of Apollo 13 was foretold in advance and then he tells Walter that he (Walter) should call up his (The Wrapper's) friend, Marshall McLuhan. Far out. McLuhan was a world famous super establishment media man - the father of modern advertising. Then he showed Cronkite some other passages in the hand-lettered work, and presented Walter with an autographed copy.

Cronkite, being the man that he is, well it wasn't very long before some CBS staffer, and then a second guy interrupted them. From where I stood it looked sort of like they were taking Cronkite away because he had other obligations.

I asked Kid-poem about his brief below earshot conversation with Cronkite and Kid tells me, "I wanted to explain how to cut-yer-rent-in-half and deflate the whole world economy to Walter and he said, 'O.K. I'll listen,' but I was pressured into talking ninety miles an hour by those other dudes who kept coming along and tugging him away. That's why he threw up his arms up and said, 'Too much.'"

"But in those few minutes, Golly, when we were alone together I did say to him that I wanted to hold a press conference. Walter answered me, 'Write a press release. Maybe they'll come.' "You hear that Golashes, maybe they'll come to my press conference?! This is the CBS News Executive Producer I was talking to - he could order them to come! Or maybe he doesn't decide who gets coverage and what he reports as news."

Ten minutes later I spot Walter again and I alert Kid-poem. Cronkite is on the first landing of the platform past the initial steps going up toward the lectern. He's chatting with David Brinkley. The Kid walks over and I'm not far behind. Walter grins and says, 'David, I want you to meet Mr,'Kid-poem interrupts and says, "Drop the mister." Then Walter says he's got work to do and excuses himself so it's me, unobtrusively seven feet away, Kid-poem, and the Brink.

Kid-poem presents Brinkley with a copy of his written down epic for all man kind - when would I get copy I thought to myself - then he opens it up and starts to read the phonetic, silly-bull story of Adman and Even in the Gar Den ov Edum. Brinkley is piqued and interrupts, "I know how to read."

Then Brinkley excused himself and moved on, so we went back down to the empty convention floor amongst the workers who were busily stringing telephone lines for the delegates. A Cuban guy tells us, "Miami is Cubish. Cuban and Jewish," and he gave the kid a cigarillo. Another string reporter offered to take his picture standing in front of the lectern so he went back up and pretended to be making a major speech to the nonexistent crowd. On his way down from the podium he spotted a copy of his book on an open staircase shelf - this he retrieved and presented to me as extra special because it was the Brinkley copy. I felt for the kid because long before Miami I'd classified Brinkley as prima donna prig.

Later Brinkley is sitting ten rows away from us recording part of his preconvention commentary. Noisily, the kid starts entertaining the Cubans and anyone else within earshot so as to bug Brinkley for mistreating his book. Ah dear readers, the way a good mind cares to wander. Best to finish this side long tale from my jotted notes, careful interviews, and audio tapes made at the time along with notes and quotes in the kid's own words from then, and from a few years later on because this man I labeled Kid-poem - today, Captain Lecturn, The Carnivour of Candidates - did cause many changes in my life and no doubt capsized my budding career as an itinerant free lance jounalist.

"Then I'm all alone with myself in the front row so I sit quietly picking my nose and smoke the cigarillo, slumped in my temporary convention seat. Something prompts me from the corner of my eye, and I look up at the CBS anchor booth, high above the Convention floor. Walter is standing there checking me out with his binoculars. After a while I decide it's time to vacate. As I go to leave Walter swivels around and then stands. Otherwise I'm out of view. I wave good-bye and he waves back, sort of holding his arm out in salute. Cronkite had introduced me to Brinkley - he could have signaled for security. How long can it be before I get my message out?"

How many years, dear ladies and lads? I caught up with Kid-poem at the door and said I'd walk back with him so together we were walking down the street heading toward Flamingo park when more lows and beholds, it's the Yippie-med trio, Allen Ginsberg, Abbie Rubin, and Jerry Hoffman, coming up the pavement. Allen Ginsberg kisses Kid-poem on the mouth hello. Rubin exclaims, "It's the Cosmic Wrapper," but Abbie Hoffman looked bad - horrible, like he wanted to slide away with last night's trash - to somehow get out of sight beneath the debris in the nearest roadside ditch.

"Abbie's mental state was a serious and major blow to my own unconventional plans because I was in Miami expressly to give a giant speech in Flamingo Park and elect my mother president of USA in the minds of the ho-hum TV viewing audience - "come home America; to Mary Levinson's chicken soup," sounded like much better instantaneous telly during the prime-time convention lull because those self-destructing demos weren't about to even let their own candidate speak until 4:00A.M. when America was not only home already but fast asleep!"

"But I needed Abbie's support. I could see on my first day at the designated protester's site that even approaching a live microphone in the pseudo-liberated FBI infested park without a respected media wizard like Abbie Hoffman behind me was going to be out of the question."

Cagey interviews I conducted later that week backed up his claim: The so-called revolutionary Buffalo contingent had hipped Rene Davis, Dave Dellinger, vets against the war, the off-shoot Zippies who were sponsored by Tom Forcade, and all the other advance splinters to his Mother-Mary-for Prezo-Politic and these group controllers - ah ladies and lads, tiz all a documented story in our guvie's unsecreted domestic files because my own haphazard research leads me to believe that each of the anti-war groupies had two counter-intelligence people within their leadership - they'd already held their own democratic pre-convention meetings where the issue of keeping the ancient Drencho silent, off to the side, and away from the microphones was the main and only scheme on their agenda.

"A few years before Miami, in the summer of '69, I'd run into Abbie walking down an East Village street in Manhattan. On the spot he invited me to join his lower East side commune and accompany them to Woodstock where his commune was to be in charge of the stage so I could easily recite my Che Postersize Poem and my love poems, too, on the stage at Woodstock between the bands - what a dummy I canceled out on becoming a movie star - deciding instead to make one last trip on a merchant ship. What an irony. I told Abbie that summer of '69 that it was a great idea but I'd take a rain check."

"So there we all were, together again on a street corner in Miami, me with my giant plans and of the three, while I liked but only tolerated Allen Ginseng, I was quickly developing very serious doubts about Jerry Rubin as being spokesman for anything beyond himself, which that week was a pro-Migriven book contract he'd arranged in advance with Bantam, like Bantam Books really gave two hoots one way or the other about Rubin's or Hoffman's participation in my mother's campaign.

It was obvious that the Miami Demo and Repo conventions in Miami '72 were our last chance for yippie revolution at which, incidentally, Goloshes, no one bothered to show up for anyway. Some revolution."

"Golly, can you imagine, only a few days before, as I was walking out the kitchen door to drive down to Miami, my mother looked up at me from stirring a pot of home made beet borcht and said, "Bring me the nomination." Isn't that beautiful?"

"Not gefilte fish ?"

"Golly, had she been making Gefilte fish I might not have left for Miami. Can't beat my mother's hot gefilte. The opening gavel had yet to be slammed and a great opportunity was already slipping away. Without Abbie's support in Flamingo Park - alone - even with my electronic megaphone I wasn't any match for these anti-war fascist piggies. You, Golly, spent most of your time drunk in an air conditioned hotel, but me, I stayed on the park grounds and walking around Flamingo Park I'd shout at Rene Davis, Dellinger, and the other haughty movement manipulators, "Ex-delete the revolution. We need revelation. The own le re volt/ is the hue min heart / Thump thump, thump thump. That is yer charge." They hated me. But I admired and loved Abby Hoffman and I was glad to see him, regardless his mental state."

"Couple years later Abbie was in Buffalo to give a speech and I drove him to the airport. On our way to the airport, as I drove the car, I told him this story:

"One afternoon before the convention, while hanging out in Flamingo Park, underneath the yippie parachute that sufficed as yippie headquarters for Miami, '72, I met this local girl named Ruthie. She was skinny as a rail and sixteen years old - I know because I asked her - and she had a mouthful of silver braces. Me, you - what the hell - was I born yesterday - I'm an old yippie chieftain from the woodstock nation - poetry division; so I asked her how long had she been a yippie? She looked at me and said, "All my life." As I arrived at the punch line of the story we arrived at the air port and were both getting out of the car when I shouted, "All my life," over a fierce wind and we locked into each other's eyes over the car roof with giant smiles, as though silently saying to each other that whatever we'd been doing up till then - Ruthie, the skinniest girl in the world from Miami had made it worth while. I loved Abbie with all my heart."

The way the mind plays - we blink and flash back in time.

Next night Koppel's programers tell us they have an exclusive interview with General Khalid, the Saudi Arabian Schwarzkopf. The General, taking Koppel off the hook, offers his own wish list of skuddle-bud-wisery - Saddam will be gone in two months. Zippo - and my Spanish mother keeps kosher, dressed to the eye-balls in a black Halloween outfit. I wonder how many more Iraqis will have to die removing Saddam from the power throne.

Another week passes. Koppel interviews a Washington Toast reporter, stationed somewhere on the outskirts of the war zone. She describes the continuing barbaric sweep by the recently commuted Republican Guards - Saddam Hussein's platoons of Willie Hortons, personally paroled by our Chief Parole officer, King George the One-Berm Trashman Waffle - now reenergized via cryptic shortwave to snuff out all who even appear to be in a state of revolt against Saddam. While the lady journalist admits she did not personally witness the decapitation of the five year old boy in question, her description of his father's grief is indisputable. Clearly, the poor Iraqi was too distraught to have been telling tall tales or faking his anguish for sound bite.

The best reporting is clearly by the foreign born. It takes an Iraqi expatriate to state the obvious, op-edding for a fast seven hundred fifty the next day in the Slimes. Koppel must have used it for a prop in his pre-show conference with the deucy-prod-stirs.

Our secular hands are getting filthy to the quick - as a nation we are much like the lowliest of street corner Nazi Baathist bureaucrats, born again to keep our eyes closed and our mouths shut. Uncapped, we recline with all the bud-visor comforts of home silently astride our grounded Apaches, so the blood spouts of the innocently Bush-misled reek through the screen and becomes our collective bath; we are all the cool L.A. p'lice - hot to watch Rod King getting his name bashed in for speeding - and our multi acquiescence of Rod King's bashing and the Iraqi kid's decapitation the further corruption of principles a great and many people's sons and daughters gave their lives for on the beaches of Normandy and Iwo Jima - and in more recent times, further places and more confusing, deeper slimes.

Which brings us 'round and about to the ultimo verdict on that blessing from G-d, Saddam. All "Saddam Hussein, the dictator" ever wanted was some extra oil wells and to be scene as a big-time player with international CNN respect. Cheek to cheek with George in the Oval Office. Stuff like that. But when Bush came to shovel what we, the people got were ring-side seats for Armageddon, Round One: lots of needless death, annihilation, and the devastation of a whole region with ecological consequence we have yet to comprehend. But winning at first only meant Schwarzkopf's munching the guy who kicked war off with strafe-stopable tank columns fully in sight on a desert roll.

So, dear reader, after much indelicate digress, amongst us all, who is the citizen Galoshes Journalist, best suited for talking or pounding some sense into Saddam Hussein? Let me be the one. I love all these big bad dictator dudes and see them as my friend. As our official emissary, I could fly to Teheran, and travel by camel over-the-land to Baghdad. This is the way I fulfil Saddam's stepfather's pamphlet criteria on the three most lovable things in the universe: flies, Jews, and Iranians. Sure. Your check is in the mail; G-d loves you, and I promise I won't come expletive deleted.

What, pray tell, would I dare say to Saddam? Golly, I'd invite him to Washington so he can give an old soldiers never die sprechen to a joint session of waffles. (His buddies, Dole and Simpson can lead cheers). After that I'd rent a diplomatic stretch for Saddam and I to go meet Wyatt Earp. Jimmy Hoffa can drive; I'll ride shot-gun, and Saddam's favorite guy, Vito Coreleone, can chat with him in the back seat about Doc Holliday, or The Missouri Breaks, and what not to expect when we get to the OK Corral.
                                
Michael Stephen Levinson

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