FinermanWorks

Upon arriving in the United States, Pope Benedict found himself forced to attend an audience with George Bush. Here is the likely transcript….

Commandude Bush: Ya know, Poppie, ya oughta be confessing to me. Why aren’t ya supporting us in Iraq? The Crusades were your idea.

Pope: Ve lost der crusades.

Dude: Ya did? So ya let the terrorists win?

Pope: Actually, everywun said ve vere der terrorists.

Dude: Don’t need that loser talk! And I’m gonna give ya a second chance to join my team.

Pope: I prefer mein coach.

Dude: Ya haven’t heard my offer, yet. How would ya like a seat on the Supreme Court? I think that ya’re pretty reliable on pro-life, and the Cadalik Church ought to be pro-corporation. Your guys invented it.

Pope: I am not a lawyer.

Dude: But who’s gonna vote against ya? Besides, ya can judge on all them child-molestation cases. Save the Church a lot of money. In fact, if ya need any cash, it seems we might owe ya some. My lawyers–smart Jews, ya don’t know what ya’re missing–anyway they tell me your folks have the original patent on waterboarding. So, I guess every time we use it, we have to pay ya a fee. We could be talkin’ some serious money.

Pope: So, as der patent holders, ve can insist that you schtop vaterboarding.

Dude: Don’t ya get high and mighty on me. A man who dresses like my mother! I can have ya in Guantanamo faster than ya can say….whatever ya say in Cadalik. I’ll just tell people ya made a pass at me.

Pope: You vouldn’t dare.

Dude: Fox News already has the story–and they are just waitin’. And I’ll punch ya in the mouth to make it look real.

Pope: All right, I vill say something encouraging about you und Iraq.

Dude: And ya’ll demand Cadaliks vote Republican and endorse Jeb as Vice President.

Pope: Dis is der second time dat I have surrendered to Americans. 1945 vas easier.

Dude: That’s when we still had the Geneva Convention.

Absolut Vodka had a very clever ad running in Mexico. Presenting a picture of an Absolut–which to say Perfect–world, the ad showed a map of Mexico circa 1830. If you were under the impression that Texas, California, Nevada, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico were named for shires in England, that old map would indicate otherwise. Of course, all that territory was purchased in a fire sale in 1848. (The fires were in Veracruz, Monterey and Mexico City–but there is no need to dwell on who set those fires.) For some reason, the Mexican public found the ad quite amusing.

Of course, in an Absolut World no one North of the Rio Grande would have seen that ad, threatened a boycott and forced the vodka manufacturer to apologize.

Now I have to wonder what other maps were part of that Absolut campaign. Germany in 1942 would be too tactless. Italians might be a bit nostalgic for that time when the Mediterranean Sea was a Roman bath, when Londinium and Alexandria were their suburbs. But probably not; the Italians are not longing to rule Britannia and Aegyptus when they are not interested in governing themselves. The French, however, would enjoy an Absolut map of 1750 avec tout Amerique Nord; after all, they have yet to admit losing the Seven Years War.

Of course, if Absolut really wants people longing for the past, there would be ads of the 8th century Caliphate. One realm, from Spain to India, and where the Jews knew their place–which was to have none at all. The Absolut map would be so popular that the grateful Arabs might take up drinking.

Despite my best efforts, not all of my money is spent on ice cream. (Edy’s–if the company would like to reward this product placement.) No, I have also bought stocks, but in most cases the ice cream was a better investment. Now, to remind me of my foolhardy capitalism, the companies are sending me their annual reports and requesting my expression of gratitude by voting for the board of directors.

The companies can always count on my vote–against them. With visions of tumbrels and guillotines, I read the names of the directors to find the standard chorus of sychophants and ciphers. They include retired politicians, idiot heirs and professional board sitters. For simply agreeing (understanding is unnecessary) to whatever the Chairman says, a director will receive $ 80,000 a year plus stock options. Attendance at the meeting is required, but a private jet is available for transportation.

I have a ballot in front of me. This particular slate includes three former government officials, one of whom should not have much spare time between grand juries. I see the name of a college president; apparently, those astronomical Ivy League tuitions are not reflected in her salary, so she has to moonlight here. (Free lunches are also included.) But most blatant of all is the corporate incest. This slate is typically top heavy with the poobahs of other corporations. In theory they are lending their expertise to the meetings; in reality they are protecting each other. Some of them have been co-conspirators since college, and they probably even lie for each other on golf scores.

In my corporate experiences, I have been in edifying proximity to some boardroom spectacles. My favorite involved a company caught in a scandal. Attempting to do business in the Middle East, it understood that bribery would be required. Unfortunately, this corporation did not know which official to bribe. As a general rule, one should bribe them all, but this company did not understand the etiquette. Worse, the company was calling attention to itself–whether it was placing full pages in the Damascus Daily or telephoning the State Department with questions–the results were incriminating. Since the Democrats were in the White House at the time, corporate corruption and foreign bribery were treated as felonies rather than hobbies.

The corporation could easily afford the million dollar fine but not the bad publicity. If you are trying to ingratiate your company with Syria, does that make your company anti-Israel? The headlines were asking that question, and the beleaguered Chairman looked at his board of directors and saw the solution: Get me a Jew! The corporate board lacked one who could refute the accusations. Fortunately, Chicago has a number of Jews–and some of them are very conspicuous. The daughter of a prominent magnate was willing to join the corporate board. (I suspect that the board’s Southern socialite would not talk to Ms. Tokenstein–but that is besides the point.) Now, no one could question the company’s love of Jews.

And that is how corporate boards work.

D.K. Pharmaceuticals announces its new wonderdrug “Necro Nectar.” Made with all natural arsenic, with a touch of antifreeze for flavor, Necro Nectar will stop aging and allergies, and is guaranteed to cure a cold. Necro Nectar was approved by Food and Drug Adminstration as soon as the checks cleared. ($100 for the FDA registration and $100,000 for the George Bush Presidential Library.)

There may be side effects to Necro Nectar, such as rigor mortis and a desperate belief in God. However, any survivors cannot sue D.K. Pharmaceuticals because of the legal doctrine known as “pre-emption.” Based upon the common law principle of “Nyah, nyah, you can’t touch me”, pre-emption grants immunity from all liability because the Government says it can. No matter how dangerous the drug, a FDA approval absolves the manufacturer of incompetence, corruption and malice. And no matter how perfunctory, inept or facetious the FDA approval procedure, ain’t that your tough luck.

For the moment Necro Nectar does not exist. However, there actually are on the market a number of risky drugs and medical devices. Their danger has been irrefutably proved, but pre-emption protects their right to kill you.

Today’s New York Times tells of a Johnson & Johnson birth control patch with a few unfortunate side effects that the company preferred to hush up. In fairness, strokes and death are effective forms of birth control. The dead customers are not objecting, but the stroke victims seem to be petty ingrates and have sued the manufacturer. Once the side effects were made public, Johnson & Johnson willingly changed the product to be less lethal. Who says the Free Market doesn’t work! But the company refuses to acknowledge any responsibility for its dead and crippled customers. “Pre-emption, pre-emption.”

Some courts, apparently suffering the antiquated principle of justice, have found in the favor of the plaintiffs. However, there is always another court–preferably larded with Bush appointees–to protect pre-emption and the sanctity of corporations. Antonin Scalia believes birth control is a capital offense, so those strickened customers got what they deserved.

So Johnson & Johnson will inevitably win. In the First Age of the Robber Barons, William Vanderbilt rebuffed criticisms of his monopolistic tactics with the rejoinder, “The public be damned.” That was his personal opinion, but it is now the federal policy.

Today I had the car and therefore all the responsibilities. Here is the recitation of my errands.

I. Pick Up the Drycleaning….

As you enter, you see the sign “A Smile Costs You Nothing”. The next line should be “But Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter, You Grinning Moron”. Before you is a clerk who evidently lost her job with the TSA for excessive brutality. “Open your suitcase before I break your hand.”

In my terror, I try to avoid eye contact. I see that the owner of the establishment wants you to know his heritage. The walls are a photo gallery of Greek ruins; the clerk may be one of them. Mr. Basilios is telling his customers, “My folks invented Western Civilization; what have you done? So don’t complain about the service.”

Trying to justify my existence, I could tell the clerk that my folks invented monotheism, psychiatry and the atomic bomb. (There certainly must be corelation between the three.) And we did improve the Greek inventions of medicine and comedy. We definitely were the first to see the humor in Oedipus.

No, just pay the bill, don’t count the buttons and flee.

II. The Supermarket

Being a glutton, I always enjoy the proximity of food. But an early morning trip to the supermarket is the best time of all. The store is uncrowded. In fact, it is safer. There are no shopping cart kamikazes to ram into you, and then blame you for your clumsiness. In the check lane, you can take your time, paying the bill. Without a line of growling customers behind me, I can count out the dimes, nickels and pennies to give the cashier exact change.

A trip to the supermarket is an education in sociology and economics. Cruise down the cereal aisle and you will learn both the latest in dietary fads and cartoon characters; sometimes simultaneously. Shrek likes carotene! Of course, I always make a pilgrimage to the soda pop and ice cream. And there I am confronted with the evidence of civilization’s collapse. Six months ago, the sale prize for soda was $.89 for a two liter bottle; now, I am expected to believe that $1.25 is a bargain.

The greater outrage, however, is the repackaging of ice cream. The half-gallon carton used to be a half-gallon. But a few years ago, in an act of marketing treachery, the size of the carton was reduced by a half-pint. Of course, as those evil MBAs knew, we would still call the carton a half-gallon because it is rather cumbersome to say “1.75 quarts”. Today, to my horror, I see that the perfidious plot continues. The carton is now “1.5 quarts.” So the perceived “half-gallon” is now three pints of ice cream and one pint of gullibility.

Is there any hope for civilization? I found a little in a pile of discontinued products. No one, thank Heaven, apparently wanted pineapple-flavored licorice. Is this a triumph of the Free Market? I suppose so, but the public would also demand the execution of whoever thought of pineapple- flavored licorice. Perhaps the licorice could be braided into a lynch rope.

And now back home, to my office and my sympathetic reader.

I am currently working against a deadline, toiling on a non-fictional satire known as my taxes. Of course, I am only adhering to the non-fiction out of an outmoded etiquette. With the diligence of the Bush administration, I could deduct the Mexican War as an expense. After all, I have been to California.

Over the last few days, a few headlines caught my eye. To save myself disillusionment, I did not bother to read the stories, preferring to make them up. And here are my versions:

Who is that stunning creature? Is Marlene Dietrich still alive? No, it is Pope Benedict XVI making the best of his German accent and fabulous legs. The Pope’s Dietrich impersonation has long been a hit at Vatican parties and at old soldiers’ homes in Argentina. His rendition of “See What the Boys in the Backroom Will Have” will delight the American audience just as it did the College of Cardinals.

Responding to the crises in the financial markets, Secretary Treasury Henry Paulson announced a broad program of regulatory supervision. He explained, “We will be looking for any reckless or unethical financial practices and, when necessary, cover them up. Believe me, if our staff bozos could find the evidence, it must really be flagrant. So, to maintain market stability and the investors’ confidence, we will insist on a full and comprehensive cover-up.” The Secretary proposed punitive actions against financial firms that refused to hide the incriminating evidence or did a slipshod job in the cover-up. “Repeat offenders will receive bad tables at Republican fundraisers.”

In tribute to the late Richard Widmark, the Democratic Party of Texas has awarded additional delegates to Senator Obama. “It is in our by-laws” explained a party official. “Widmark was a liberal Democrat and he played Jim Bowie in ‘The Alamo.” The delegates were awarded to Obama because Widmark appeared in two films with Sidney Poitier. Of course, the decision was challenged by the Clinton campaign. Noting that Elizabeth Taylor starred in “Giant” and would eventually died, the Clintons asked for the Taylor memorial votes now.

At midnight, July 1, 1997, in an elaborate pageant that marked the end of a historical epic, the sovereignty of Hong Kong was transferred from Great Britain to China. Concluding their 156-year rule of the colony, the British departed with pomp and ceremony: splendid uniforms, regimental bands, and formal banquets. It is a British art. However, the Chinese were in business suits, and showed no nostalgia for the Victorian relics. Britain’s Prince Charles and China’s President Jiang Zemin stood on the same dais, the personifications of their countries in this historical act: the old empire was giving ground to the new world power.

Ironically, that was how the history of Hong Kong began. In the early 19th century, however, China was the old empire and Britain the new world power. China had become the relic of a great nation. When Europe was stirring from the Middle Ages, China’s might, culture and wealth were unmatched. In the 15th century an emperor had disbanded the Chinese navy. The outside world could not threaten his empire and had nothing to offer it. His arrogance would become China’s policy for the next four centuries. The Chinese civilization acclaimed by Marco Polo, the culture that invented gunpowder, the printing press and eyeglasses became complacent and stagnant. The Chinese had the first cannons but they had not improved them since the 16th century. Against the encroaching powers of Europe, China could not even defend herself. Foremost of these new powers was Great Britain.

In the 18th century, British ships were plying China’s shores, eager to trade for silk, porcelain and especially tea. This trade, however, was one way. China was selling but not buying. The imperial government regulated commerce, restricting European imports into the empire. Furthermore, China would only accept silver bullion as legal payment. (The Chinese had invented paper money but evidently did not trust anyone else’s.) This trade deficit with China–and the drain on bullion–was undermining Britain’s economy. British merchants, however, eventually found a way to reverse the trade imbalance: selling opium.

Smoking opium was a vice long known to China, and the opium poppy was easily cultivated in British-controlled India. (The local rajahs did not care, so long as the opium was only for export.) A ready supply of the drug increased the Chinese demand for it. In the 1770s, the British were importing 75 tons of opium a year into China; the imperial officials initially overlooked it. By the1830s, the opium traffic had grown to 1400 tons a year. Now, China was running a trade imbalance with Britain; worse, an estimated 4 million Chinese men were opium addicts. Confronted with this crisis, China sought to stop the opium trade.

In 1839 an imperial viceroy confiscated 1200 tons of opium from British merchants. He further threatened prosecution of traders and sailors involved in the drug traffic. The viceroy even wrote an open letter to Queen Victoria, criticizing her for permitting her barbarians to poison the Chinese people with opium. Her Majesty may never have seen the letter, but the British press certainly did. You can imagine the headlines: “Heathen Chinee Insults Our Queen”; “Opium Fiends Call Us Barbarians.” (Rupert Murdoch had his role models.) While the British government could hardly condone the specific opium trade, it could champion the general principles of the Free Market. Furthermore, it would never allow British subjects to be tried by a foreign power, especially one that insulted the Queen. So, for such impeccable causes as free trade, sovereignty and royal dignity, Britain went to war with China.

Britain had a population of 26 million; China had over 400 million people. Yet, it was China that proved hopelessly outmatched. Britain had the best navy in the world and her army was equipped with modern weapons. This conflict, known as the First Opium War lasted from 1839 until 1842 but only because the British were in no hurry. “I say, shall we take Canton this afternoon or would you rather play cricket?” With their unchallenged mobility and superior firepower, the British were free to blockade, raid and conquer at their leisure. In 1841, the British seized a large island a mile off the Southern coast of China. With its deep-sea anchorage this island–Hong Kong–made an excellent base. The war ended with the Treaty of Nanking; the humiliated Chinese basically turned over their ports and customs enforcement to the British, they paid for the confiscated opium, and ceded Hong Kong to its conquerors.

So, you can understand if, 156 years later, China’s President did not seem nostalgic for the departing British. Indeed, if he had a sense of whimsy, he was imagining a different history; with the fleet of Imperial China anchored in the Thames as Chinese merchants exploited the British addiction to tea.

While writing an article on Hong Kong, I made a disconcerting discovery. No reference work seemed to agree on the exact size of Hong Kong. Of course, I never expected any accuracy from Wikipedia; according to that popular if dubious source, Hong Kong is the capital of Kansas and has dated the Olsen Twins. However, I could not even find a surveyed certainty from the Encyclopedia Britannica; two different editions had two different answers. I was left with two alternatives: I could either describe Hong Kong as “sort of around 400 sq. miles” or avoid the point altogether. When in doubt, it is wiser to say nothing; if I had observed that on Jeopardy, I would be thousands of dollars richer. (Hell, I might have won the Tournament of Champions.)

At least, this factual diversity was unintentional. In public relations, you routinely see creative alternatives to the truth. “Who is to say that arsenic is really dangerous? And even if this purely natural ingredient were in our company’s cold cream, what harm could it do if you don’t eat the cold cream?” I once worked for a man who had a genuine enthusiasm for lying but was oblivious to details. In three separate editions of “Who’s Who”–all within the same decade–he listed three different dates of birth. If you are wondering, he was getting younger. However, he never bothered to adjust the date of his marriage. So by the third version, he had gotten married at the age of 16.

Knowing him, I imagine that he is now younger than me; and he got married in utero.

Pat Buchanan has inspired me before. This satire on the 2000 election was published in Salon. Let’s see how it has aged.

Pox Populi

According to Pat Buchanan, “George W. Bush is no Marcus Aurelius.” Then, which Roman emperor is the Republican heir? Five centuries of Caesars and their perpetual assassinations offer us some 80 emperors to use as presidential similes. Let’s see who fits whom?

All of the candidates want to be Constantine, the first Christian emperor. The 4th century tyrant actually would be an appropriate choice. Constantine (c. 312-337) embraced Christianity and tried to impose it on everyone, but he never personally practiced it. Morality and mercy would have constrained his hold on power. Yes, most of his slaughtered rivals were pagans; they also were members of his family. He was ecumenical in killing Christian relatives as well. Proclaimed in his lifetime as “the 13th apostle” and “Christ’s regent on earth,” the ruthless hypocrite did not bother to be baptized until he was on his death bed. Constantine is not merely a role model for modern politicians; he is their patron saint.

George W. Bush is no Constantine; otherwise, Jeb would already be dead. Nor is Bush the new Marcus Aurelius, but he could be that emperor’s son: the fatuous, petulant Commodus. The princeling (c. 180-192) was more of a contrast than a successor. Marcus Aurelius was a statesman, philosopher and soldier; Commodus was a jock. The young patrician possessed no distinctions other than his father’s name and a talent for carousing. Commodus’ reign was only as good as his advisors and his temper, and the former rarely survived the latter. He hated to be distracted from his chief interest: professional sports. The emperor preoccupied himself with managing a gladiator school. His tantrums finally compelled some endangered advisors to organize a fitting plot. The imperial jock got a fatal headlock from a professional wrestler. If George W. Bush does not have an unnatural fear of Jesse Ventura, perhaps he should.

Al Gore might aspire to be Marcus Aurelius, but he lives the plight of Claudius. Stolid, lumbering Claudius (c. 41-54) was the stooge and the successor of Caligula. Although kinsmen, the two were incongruous. Caligula was a charming sociopath; even most of his victims liked him. Claudius was an awkward introvert; people could not decide whether he was a buffoon or a bore. Among his less prurient caprices, Caligula made his horse a senator and Claudius a consul. The horse commanded more respect. When Caligula was assassinated, the Republicans in the Roman Senate overlooked the ludicrous possibility that Claudius would succeed to the throne. The Imperial party and the Praetorian Guard really did not want him either, but there were no other male adults in the dynasty. Claudius was unavoidable and inevitable. He also was underestimated. Dull, plodding Claudius turned out to be a good emperor. Perhaps Al Gore shouldn’t mind the comparison.

Steve Forbes has proved his abilities by being born rich. That achievement apparently qualifies him to be president. Forbes has the presumption and precedence of Didius Julianus, the man who bought the Roman Empire. The Praetorian Guard could overlook any vice in an emperor but stinginess. Emperor Pertinax had every virtue but generosity, so he did not survive his bodyguards. The impulsive Praetorians seized the throne but had no one to occupy it. Then the extravagantly rich Julianus (c. 193) showed up at the Praetorians’ camp and proceeded to bid for their loyalty. Another patrician competed in the auction for the Empire, but Julianus outbid him. His purchased Praetorians then cowed the Senate into acclaiming him the emperor. The Praetorians’ loyalty lasted two months. When an ambitious general marched on Rome, the imperial guard switched sides again. Julianus did not live to regret it. He now is remembered as a joke, which may yet be Steve Forbes’ real achievement.

Bill Bradley may hope to be Marcus Aurelius, but he threatens to be Julian the Apostate. Both emperors were brilliant, profound and virtuous; however, Marcus Aurelius was also competent. Julian (c. 361-363) tried managing the Empire like a graduate course in philosophy. By the 4th century, Rome verged on collapse. Corruption and strife had completely demoralized the Empire. Constantine imagined that Christianity would be a cohesive and subservient force for the government. Instead, the Christian sects were fighting each other when they weren’t persecuting everyone else. Julian intended to revive the Empire by offering a new faith. As the alternative to libertine paganism and dogmatic Christianity, Julian endorsed Neoplatonism. His approach certainly had intellectual appeal. Pagans had fun, Christians had solace but Neoplatonists had metaphysics. There weren’t many converts. The Christians resented Julian, while the pagans were just bewildered. Julian still has a loyal following among history professors, and Bill Bradley can count on that constituency, too.

Jesse Ventura might seem original, but he is the reincarnation of Maximinus Thrax. The peasant who became an emperor, Maximinus (c. 235-238) possessed theatrical strength and size. He could haul a loaded wagon or fell an ox with a single blow of his fist. That remarkable power also was useful for slaughtering barbarians, and Maximinus rose through the ranks of the Roman army. The general still retained his peasant manners and, seeing no reason why an ineffectual patrician should be emperor, Maximinus usurped the throne. The new Roman Emperor did not like Rome and, during his reign, never bothered to visit his capital. He preferred fighting the Germans to contending with patrician society. For their part, the patricians loathed the vulgar usurper and constantly conspired against him. Maximinus was not shy about executions, and he attempted to purge aristocrats from the officer corps; but he was one man against the Roman establishment. A plot finally succeeded, ending the reign of a brutal tyrant and the best emperor in a 50-year period. Jesse Ventura could do worse.

Pat Buchanan, unlike the other candidates, would hate to be Marcus Aurelius. The pugnacious pundit is no stoic. Furthermore, Buchanan would rather fight for the German barbarians than against them. We must find another emperor who matches Buchanan’s physique, manner and philosophy. Think of a porcine sadist, a flamboyant bigot and a preposterous megalomaniac. Of course! If only Pat Buchanan were 30 years younger, he would be a perfect Nero.

salon.com | Sept. 25, 1999

As a writer in today’s market, I knew that I had to compete against Indian college sophomores (and they don’t even have to be English majors). But as I just discovered, my prospective employers insist that I take steroids and make a decent cup of coffee. Here is what a prominent accounting firm expects from an experienced writer. (This is an ad I really received!)

Description: At KPMG LLP, you can count yourself among some of the best and the brightest. We’re proud of our talented people. We are currently seeking an Internal Communications Manager to join us in our Chicago office.

Responsibilities• Conduct daily floor inspections and fill out appropriate check lists in an effort to help ensure facilities are clutter free and fully stocked
• Order supplies with Procurement team and help ensure supplies are replenished daily
• Monitor inventory of coffee, condiments and paper supplies
• Review conference room and hoteling schedules daily and provide necessary set-up and break-down utilizing established checklist procedures

Qualifications
• One year of experience performing general office duties and familiarity with office equipment such as computers, copy machines, video equipment, and LCD projectors
• Experience using MS Office Suite including Word, Excel and Outlook
• High school diploma or equivalent
• Able to lift a minimum of fifty pounds
• Excellent verbal and written communication, organizational and administrative skills

Well, in the age of George Bush, a speechwriter no longer needs a college education or even basic coherence. With Power Point, corporate communications is at a level with cave drawings: point and grunt. We superfluously literate might be more useful in the corporate cafeteria. “Does anyone need speeches or condiments?”

But a speechwriter really does need to lift a minimum of fifty pounds. The executive ego is at least five times that mass. I am surprised that more of my colleagues aren’t in wheelchairs.

And when I am not lugging crates and cleaning coffee pots, I could proofread the job announcements for KPMG and possibly spare the morons in Human Resources some embarrassment.