2. World War II and Other Glorious Events

WORLD WAR II AND OTHER GLORIOUS EVENTS

YOU CAN EVEN SELL A SOVIET MISSILE AT THE RIGHT PRICE

Pssssst: I’ve got a terrific deal for you on a six-year-old Indian elephant. It’s a steal at $1,000.”

“You can’t be serious. What would a city dweller possibly do with an elephant?”

“Tell you what. I’ll lower the price to $800 and include one year’s supply of hay.”

“This is ridiculous. I live in a three-room apartment in Berkeley and they don’t even allow a parakeet.”

“My final offer: $500 and I’ll throw in a second elephant.”

“Two elephants for $500? . . . It’s a deal but they both better be healthy and housebroken.”

News Item: American businessman Dennis Tito paid a $20 million fee to blast-off on a space shot aboard a Russian rocket. Tito’s fare amounted to more than a sixth of the Russian space program’s annual budget.

The media have made a big deal out of Tito’s expensive excursion. But it is well-known that with the right connections in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn you can purchase an entire Russian infantry division or arrange to have former Soviet MIG fighter pilots as waiters for your next party. (Whatever deal you make, you’ll probably get cheated, or worse.)

There is something deliciously perverse in seeing a major world government selling or renting their military paraphernalia to any and all customers. Some folks express panic at the mere thought of Russian weapons in the hands of “unaccountables.” Seems to me, that the risks are no greater than when the weapons are in the hands of government murderers with “legal sanction” (ask Chechnya).

Given the inevitable bloating and corruption of all government enterprises, and the negative view Americans have of their intrusive, imperial government, it’s only a matter of time when the “For Sale” signs are rolled out on all US agencies, military and otherwise.

Here is a peek at a future GSA brochure advertising US Government products and services at bargain prices:

CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR THE MAN WHO HAS EVERYTHING

•The man in your life will be delighted to receive three live Minuteman missiles ready to launch. (He needn’t worry about any “collateral damage” as he will be protected by the same exemption of responsibility enjoyed by the US Military.) Price: $5 million (some history of family violence is useful.)

•He will be excited to command the 82nd Airborne in any military exercise of his choice. To be used outside the US only. Price: $5 million. (This is the favorite gift for those with strong, negative feelings toward some country somewhere.)

•How surprised he will be when he learns the aircraft carrier USS Yorktown is available for any purpose he desires: a wedding, confirmation, or bar mitzvah. Price: $1 million (no Clinton-like parties allowed as we are still cleaning up the mess from the last one.)

•And to satisfy the darker side of your man’s personality, we will arrange for the IRS to “work over his enemies” (includes audits, threatening letters, and asset confiscation). Price: $1 million or simply provide the names of ten people you know who are not paying their fair share of taxes.

•And if the man in your life has had a rough time of it lately, what better way to relieve tensions than to have him select a Supreme Court Justice to torture over a weekend. Price: $1 million.

The GSA bargain offerings are not only for the rich. There are many fascinating gifts for the average American with a limited budget.

•Wouldn’t he enjoy a week of Marine Corps basic training at Paris Island? Price: $1,000 (he might as well learn his killing skills from the best).

•For the pet lover, what could be more loving and useful than an aging, retired drug-sniffing dog from US customs? Price: $100. (Customs is not responsible if the dog you receive is an addict.)

•If it’s travel he likes, you can get him a trip to a disaster area of choice, courtesy of FEMA. Price: $1,000. (Since Washington, DC is a constant disaster area, it is not eligible here.)

•For those who seek adventure, you can be a FBI infiltrator. Choose from any organization: Act Up, Jewish Defense League, KKK, Southern Poverty League et al. Price: $1,000. (The infiltrator will feel right at home, as most of the organization members encountered are also FBI infiltrators.)

•As a lifetime gift, you can have your loved one placed in the Witness Protection Program, and they will never be heard from again. Price: $5,000. (Those already in the Witness Protection Program are not eligible.)

•For those who are homebound, we have a full array of video tapes featuring US military atrocities on four different continents. You will know the tapes are authentic, as the narrators are all recipients of Medals of Honor and Bronze Stars. Price: $50 (tapes are not to be used for political purposes.)

•For those who appreciate humor, you can read the hilarious accounts of US citizens unwittingly exposed to experimental drugs administered by various US government agencies. Price: $50. (These are destined to be collector items.)

Watch for our next exciting GSA Auction Catalog. Here’s your chance to buy government-owned land and national parks including Yosemite. If you are one of the successful bidders for Alcatraz, “you’ll really own a piece of the rock.”

April 30, 2001

BLUMERT IS SHEIK FOR A WEEK

Following the tragic events of September 11, the media rushed to report widespread instances of violence against Arab-Americans. As the days passed these reports abated, replaced by articles about the contributions and patriotism of Arab-Americans and Muslims.

But how reliable is the media in reporting such data, and do they reflect American attitudes?

If the media’s performance is as poor in this quarter as in almost every other area, we must look elsewhere. How do we find truth? Stay tuned.

In the 1947 Academy Award Winning film, Gentleman’s Agreement, screenwriter Moss Hart and director Elia Kazan rocked the country with the movie’s study of anti-Semitism in New York’s corporate offices and in ritzy Darien, Connecticut.

Gregory Peck portrays the waspy Skylar Green, a writer assigned by Smiths Weekly to do a series on anti-Semitism. Green adopts the strategy of pretending he is Jewish writer, Phil Green, and rubs shoulders with the elite, seeking to determine the extent and depth of their anti-Semitism.

I recently rented and revisited Gentleman’s Agreement, concluding that the reason the film’s characters despised Phil Green was not because he was Jewish but because he was totally humorless, inarticulate, and unbelievably boring.

In a similar vein—thirteen years after Gentleman’s Agreement—brilliant white author John Howard Griffin uncovered racism in his book, Black Like Me. Darkening his skin, Griffin disguised himself as a black man and toured the Deep South.

Black Like Me was published to wide acclaim in 1961, but some critics held that the book revealed more about the author than race relations in the old South.

On October 18 I received the following email directive from headquarters, LewRockwell.com:

Attn: Blumert

Problem: We are not getting sufficient information on public attitudes toward Arab-Americans.

Although the value of Gentleman’s Agreement and Black Like Me was questionable, we can learn from their failure.

Your mission: You will enter your community posing as Sheik Whoizze. Mix with the people.

Seek the truth.

Warning: If captured we will not pay any ransom for your return. In fact, LRC will deny any affiliation with you.

It had been years since my last assignment in the field. In 1998 I was the nude streaker at The Academy Award Ceremony. This experience made me the logical choice as Sheik For A Week.

My report follows: Sheik For a Week

DAY ONE:

Burt’s wife: “Who are these women and what are they doing here?”

Burt: “I’m going to play my role all the way. These young women are going to be my other wives for ‘Sheik Week’.”

Burt’s wife (aghast): “Good Heavens! Where did you find them?”

Burt: “From the Afghan War Relief Agency, of course. They’re really nice, aren’t they?”

Burt’s wife: “Gregory Peck didn’t bring any women home in the movie. Anyway, we don’t have any room for them, and they don’t even speak English. Aren’t you carrying this too far?”

Burt: “It’s clear you have been influenced by Israeli propaganda. I’m reminded of an Arab proverb: ‘May the feathers of one million partridges rest beneath your head, and give you dreams that lead to the tolerance and bliss found only in a peaceful oasis’.”

Burt’s wife: “Lovely, but what has that got to do with anything?”

DAY TWO:

(Finding a Sheik Costume)

Unfortunately, it was near Halloween and costumes were almost impossible to locate. Only through a stroke of luck was I able to find the San Francisco equivalent of Omar the tent-maker. He assured me he would save the day.

Omar: “I’m going to save the day. You will need at least seven yards of billowing fabric.”

Sheik Whoizze: “I want what Peter O’Toole wore in Lawrence of Arabia. It was a spotlessly white Arab/Harith robe that made him appear larger than life.”

Omar: “Well, we can come close, but the only bolt of cloth I have is blushing pink.”

Sheik Whoizze: “Blushing pink?”

Omar (with a wave of dismissal): “This is San Francisco. It’ll work, it’ll work.”

DAY THREE

I was ready for my first encounter with the people of San Francisco.

Now, fully costumed as the Sheik, I began my research in the Marina District, an upscale neighborhood within sight of the Golden Gate Bridge. While walking along Chestnut Street I disregarded the rude, hard stares and those suspiciously sexist overtures.

Finally, a pleasant-looking middle-aged man tapped my shoulder.

Pleasant looking man: “Sheik, I represent a small group of Christian and Jewish men who want fairness and equity for Arabs and Muslims. We are embarrassed by the hostility shown to your people, and wish to protect you from angry bigotry. We insist on accompanying you on your way to the mosque.”

Sheik Whoizze (using best imitation of Omar Sharif): “That’s very nice of you and your group, but I’m not going to the mosque. I’m on my way to Safeway to pick up a live lamb.”

Pleasant looking man: “You need not hide your devotion to your faith, Mullah. You can walk with pride to the mosque for the sundown services. We are happy to escort you.”

Sheik Whoizze: “I really have to get to Safeway before someone else gets my live lamb.”

Pleasant looking man (seizing the hem of Sheik Whoizze’s pink robe):

“You’re going to the mosque, and we’re going to see that you get there safely.”

After a bit of pushing and shoving, bruised, with my garment torn, I escaped this loving group of citizens and managed to get to Safeway.

DAY FOUR

Bart (Bay Area Rapid Transit) proved to be an excellent testing ground for learning about America’s reaction to Arabs. All went smoothly until one lady, obviously distraught at having received her monthly oil bill that morning, tugged at my fake beard and pulled it off.

Angry lady (snarling): “How come they tell me on TV that the government will help us yet my fuel bill keeps going up? What do you have to say about that, Mr. Sheik?”

Sheik Whoizze: “Madam, my family has nothing to do with oil. We are in the camel-breeding business.”

She was so angry it wasn’t easy getting my beard back, but I’m convinced our exchange will lead her to a better understanding of Arabs.

FINAL DAY

I’m back home. Tired, robes torn, and famished, I was really looking forward to a magnificent meal blending Afghan and American cuisine.

Sheik Whoizze (hopefully): “Where’s my dinner, dears?”

There were my four wives playing Mahjong. They had consumed my case of Chateau Lafite Rothschild and smoked my box of Cuban Monte Cristo cigars.

Sheik Whoizze (still hopeful): “What are we having for dinner?”

Afghan wife #3: “We made a reservation for Chinese.”

Sheik Whoizze (disappointed and surprised): “How come you’re speaking English?”

Afghan wife #2: “We spent the day at Neiman Marcus and Bloomingdale’s. Those sales ladies were so nice giving us lovely American clothes because of that plastic card of yours. Learning English that way is easy.”

Stunned, ex-Sheik Whoizze staggers to the bathroom where he finds sixteen pairs of just washed Donna Karan pantyhose drying on the towel racks.

OCTOBER 23, 2001

MEMO FROM ROCKWELL: “BLUMERT, JOIN THE SARS EPIDEMIC”

From: Lew Rockwell, Editor

To: Burt Blumert

It’s no accident, Blumert, that you haven’t received an LRC story assignment since you made such a fool of yourself on the last one.

You were supposed to be researching American attitudes toward Arabs, but impersonating a Sheik in San Francisco, wearing Arabian garb that was blushing pink instead of traditional, Lawrence of Arabia white, showed the poorest judgment.

And what possessed you to request four temporary marriage licenses at City Hall, explaining that the extra wives lent authenticity to your being “Sheik For a Week”?

The worst part was negotiating with the Jewish Defense League for your freedom. You are fortunate they accepted in trade an autographed photo of William Kristol. (I’m still worried about blowback in case they thought they were getting Billy Crystal.)

Finally, I would appreciate if you stopped closing your emails with, “May the fleas of 1,000 camels infest the beard of your enemy.”

Let’s get to your new assignment.

It’s clear the government-sponsored media are blocking any real data on the “SARS epidemic.” We need you to uncover the truth. This is an important story, Blumert and here is your chance to make amends for the sheik debacle in San Francisco.

TRAVEL ARRANGEMENTS

On Thursday night, May 29, at the Oakland Airport, Cathay Pacific counter, you will be approached by a representative of Stolen-Tickets.com. He will hand you a packet with tickets and boarding passes, San Fran to Taipei to Hong Kong to Toronto to San Fran.

As you might surmise, these are the cheapest tickets available anywhere. Yours were issued in the name of Sister Mary Margaret of the Ursuline Order. Let’s do better with the costume and impersonation this time. Okay?

HOTELS

“The Final Destination Travel Agency” booked your hotel rooms as part of a terrific, cheap package deal. Your rooms will be on a floor with folks who have a slight cough, but no fever.

MEALS

Business is so bad in the “SARS” cities that you should be able to get your meals at super low prices. May I suggest that, in Chinese restaurants, you negotiate the price of each item on the menu.

If the Egg Roll is priced at US$3.95, offer them $3.25. Initially, they might get upset, but persist. Morale is so low, you will wear them down and the bargains will flow.

In Toronto, when presented with the restaurant bill, have a coughing spasm. They will be so relieved to see you exit, it won’t matter that the bill goes unpaid.

INTERVIEWS

We have obtained for you a highly prized, World Health Organization Green Badge. This allows the bearer full access to all Quarantined SARS Areas.

Imagine: you will be able to talk to SARS victims in each city, at every stage of the disease. This could mean a Pulitzer Prize.

MASK

Incidentally, you will be receiving via UPS (COD, of course) an historic surgical mask from the Spanish Influenza Epidemic of 1918.

This treasure is part of the LRC collection, so use it carefully, and please have it dry-cleaned before you return it (or leave instructions to have it returned).

May 28, 2003

BLUMERT ALMOST QUALIFIES AS A SUICIDE BOMBER

From: Editor Lew Rockwell

To: Burt Blumert

Subject: Your next assignment

Iregret to advise you, Blumert, that your article on Katrina and the tragic flooding in New Orleans is unsuitable for LRC. Interviewing the waiters at the Mardi Gras Bar and Grille in San Francisco hardly qualifies as adequate research.

Your revisionist theory that a clique of renegade CIA agents created Katrina so that damning JFK assassination evidence would be destroyed by the rampaging floodwaters is fascinating. But naming Waldo, the bartender at the Mardi Gras as your primary source for the story also falls short as proper investigative reporting.

Incidentally, the $125 charge on your expense account for “2 rounds of drinks for Katrina’s victims at the Mardi Gras Bar” is also rejected.

This next assignment gives you a chance to regain your status as LRC’s #7 investigative reporter.

It’s predictable that people will react violently to foreign invaders on their soil, but to see them blowing themselves up as “suicide bombers” is beyond the ability of most Americans to fathom.

Who are these people that blow themselves up?

How are they chosen?

We need answers, Blumert.

Infiltrate their organizations;

sign on if you must;

do whatever it takes to get us the facts.

Following is a transcription of Blumert’s interview at the Your Last Job Agency, located in the hills of Marin County.

Simon Rasputin is the Agency interviewer; Simon earned international notoriety as the Kool-Aid dispenser at the People’s Temple in Guyana.

Rasputin: Hello, Blumert. And thanks for using Your Last Job Agency. We are an equal opportunity, nonsectarian agency seeking qualified suicide bombers (SBs) from all walks of life, regardless of their political or religious biases.

I don’t wish to sound like an ageist but aren’t you a little old to be applying for this kind of work?

Blumert: Well, being old may be part of it. The current costs of dying have skyrocketed and a suicide bombing might save my estate thousands of dollars. In fact, don’t some SBs earn up to $25,000 for their family survivors?

Rasputin: Yes, that’s true, less, of course, our 18 percent agency fee.

At the risk of being rude, Blumert, may I ask why are you wearing that ridiculous, pink Lawrence of Arabia costume? Are you making some political statement, or is it left over from Halloween? (See “Sheik for a Week.”)

Blumert: No political statement intended, but there are so few occasions when I can wear it and my wife says that the flowing lines are flattering and make me look thinner.

As to the color, don’t jump to any conclusions, Buster. The tailor ran out of white and all he had left was pink. Do you have trouble with that?

Rasputin: Well, Excuuuuuse me! Let’s move on.

Your application is impressive, Blumert. It’s hard to imagine anyone so consistently identified with losing causes. This is a very positive indicator for us. You just may be one of those “naturals” we encounter every now and then.

Are you ready to start talking about an assignment?

Blumert: Not so fast. There are several things that trouble me. First, I read that the strap-on bombs are getting bigger and more powerful. Please, make a note that my bomb can’t be too heavy as I have a chronic bad back.

Can you imagine if my back went out just when I was pushing the button, or pulling the ripcord, or whatever it takes to set the thing off?

Rasputin: OK, OK. So noted. Now, are you ready to talk assignment?

Blumert: Well, let’s see. I have a dental appointment on Tuesday and on Thursday I’m scheduled for a Karate lesson. How about after Christmas?

Rasputin: Some of the clients we represent might be hiring extra people for the Christmas season, but I’m confident we could place you after the holidays.

Blumert: Now, the first reports I heard on the hotel suicide bombings in Jordan indicated that a husband and wife team were involved. I know that some employers don’t approve of hiring married couples, but it seems like a romantic idea to me.

Rasputin: I suppose it would be all right if we teamed the two of you up, but your wife will have to go through the same training course and don’t try to get another $25,000 out of us. It’s $25,000 per family.

Blumert: You just made that up. We should get at least $35,000 for the two of us.

Rasputin: All right, already. $35,000 it is. Call your wife and have her come down to sign up.

Blumert: Well, it’s not quite that simple. She hasn’t the foggiest notion I’m here or what we’re discussing. She might very well be against this whole thing. You know how difficult women can be sometimes.

Rasputin: This interview is not going well. Tell me, Blumert, what other problems might you have as a suicide bomber?

Blumert: For one thing, I’m crazy about animals. I’d need total assurance that not a hair on any kitty or doggy would be singed.

Rasputin: I’m certain that somewhere, someone would be happy to see you become a suicide bomber, Blumert, especially if you are the only casualty. I’ll give some thought to locating such a client. In the meanwhile, as they say, “Don’t call us. We’ll call you.”

November 15, 2005

WORLD WAR II AND OTHER GLORIOUS EVENTS

The following was an enclosure with last month’s credit card bill with a solicitation for the WWII Monument in Washington, DC, and a promotional piece for the movie, Pearl Harbor.

Are you bored with those phony, contrived TV survival shows? Had enough watching photogenic showbiz wannabes eating slugs and stabbing every back in sight?

Greats Wars and Other Glorious Events is proud to announce the opening of our super theme park: World War II: The Last Great War.

The park offers entertainment for the entire family, so pull the plug on your TV, join us at our fabulous Theme Park, and actually live World War II.

If you were not fortunate enough to have been part of the “Greatest Generation,” here is your opportunity to experience the exhilaration of that wondrous time.

All the famous bloody battles will be recreated: from the deserts of North Africa, to the invasion of Sicily, from Anzio to the Battle of the Bulge. (Sorry, at this writing our permit to explode atomic bombs has not been approved. Only films and tapes of that epic event will be shown.)

And you can be part of it.

For those bravehearts who want to actually share the experience of the Great Generation, and defeat Shicklgruber and Tojo, you will be fully equipped with 1940s weapons and gear, and undergo a brief training period that will include hand-to-hand combat. From that point it is up to you to “Be All That You Can Be.”

You will be under the constant eye of Theme Park employees who will direct the combat from our air-conditioned offices in Boca Raton.

Of course, family members are not required to participate directly and can watch the grand spectacle from reinforced bunkers and closed-circuit television near the front lines. (In war, even in recreated battles, there are casualties, and our heartfelt regrets go in advance to those innocents who will be victims.)

•Bloody battles are meticulously recreated. (On the Guadalcanal set, for example, the mosquitoes carry malaria.)

•The field medics have been trained and supervised by the producers of MASH.

•The Germans and Japanese, who portray enemy troops, have been recruited from maximum-security prisons in those countries. To ensure that they are appropriately surly, they have been barred from visiting Disneyland, and have eaten all their meals at fast-food restaurants.

•Acts of heroism will be properly recognized, but those committing atrocities can earn no award higher than the Bronze Star.

•The World War II Theme Park has been highly recommended by the following great Americans:

Janet Reno says she has not been so moved since that exciting day in Waco, when the outgunned BATF and FBI agents courageously overcame the Branch Davidian cultists.

General Westmoreland says after his visit, “It was nice to see us win some battles for a change.”

William Kristol enjoyed his visit to the World War II Theme Park, but grumbled that since we were doing it all over again, this time we should occupy Teheran, London, Moscow, and Peking.

As a Grand Opening special, we will conduct an Anne Frank lookalike contest. The winner gets to spend the month of August in an attic in Amsterdam.

(In fine print) Disclaimers and Warnings upon your visit to the World War II Theme Park.

•If you are wounded or get a combat-related disease, you will automatically be dispatched to a Walter Reed Hospital.

•If you are captured by the enemy, we will negotiate for your release, and even resort to a prisoner exchange (for example, you for Arnold Schwarzenegger).

•Under no circumstances will there be any refunds nor do guests at the World War II Theme Park qualify for the GI Bill of Rights.

May 30, 2001

BLUMERT PRODUCES HIS MILITARY RECORDS

From: Editor Rockwell

To: Blumert

“These are dangerous times. Since it’s an election year, everybody’s military record is being examined with a fine-tooth comb.

“There are questions about your commitment to liberty, Blumert.

“It’s time to come clean. And don’t tell me again that your records were lost in the San Francisco earthquake.

“You’ve given us different versions about your military career.

“Once, you dazzled a group of young libertarian women with an absurd tale about being America’s ace fighter pilot during the Korean War.

“That you’d shot down 15 MIGs and reached the rank of Major General upon retiring. (For your information, the women weren’t dazzled. They were nauseated.)

“I also recall, during a discussion about John McCain, you had to outdo his epic tale by recounting your experience in Korea. You told the group you were a POW for NINE years, finally released in a trade for a Russian ballerina who had defected to the West. (It was later learned she was a female impersonator.)

“I want the truth, Blumert. I expect an immediate response.”

From: Blumert

To: Editor Rockwell

“All right, I admit it. Some of those reports of my being an Air Force ace, shooting down 15 Russian MIGS are greatly exaggerated.

“Actually, the closest I ever came to combat during the Korean War was getting airsick in an Air Force Transport and barfing all over the pilot’s dress uniform carefully folded on the seat next to me.

“It required all my negotiating skills to survive that close call.

“Before finally winding up in Air Force blue, like all other thinking cowards, including Dick Cheney, I did everything to avoid the draft.

“Dick Cheney’s five deferments are chicken feed. I had at least eight. The first seven were related to student deferments.

“Then, disaster. The rules changed. The only deferments left were for war related research, like PhDs working on Hydrogen Bombs.

“I had run out of options. It was like waiting for the executioner to beckon. Korea, here I come.

“Then, a glimmer of hope.

“Get a job in a factory doing war-related things,” some unremembered faceless fellow said. “This can get you out of the draft and it won’t cost you much.”

“Details are blurry and I don’t recall the price, but I have a faded recollection of depositing money in somebody’s Swiss Bank account. My next image is of sitting in a windowless interview room in a Long Island City factory.

“I later learned that they produced pretty little precision objects that made bombs more deadly.

“Management consisted of seven ex-Nazi tool and die makers. After five minutes with me it was clear that I had to be kept away from any task that required dexterity, or tool and die making skills.

“There’s only one job here for you, Blumert,” SS Officer Schmidt said, “Cutting the aluminum bricks, that’s your job. An average person can cut six bricks in a day. You might do four.”

“It took three days, six band saws and a gallon of cooling fluid to produce my first (and last) cut brick. All of a sudden, combat in Korea seemed less horrible than another day at the band saw.

“There must be some way other than the band saw to avoid the draft?

“Yes, flunk the pre-induction medical and get the magical ‘4-F’ status.

“The setting for this medieval ritual was a cavernous stone building on Whitehall Street on Lower Manhattan, clearly built for earlier wars. Hundreds of thousands of shivering American kids in their skivvies were herded through the drafty old facility during WWII—and those with a sense of irony were later able to make the experience part of a comedy routine.

Nobody was spared the indignities.

“Bend over,” the rear-end doctor ordered.

“Do you like girls?” the psychiatrist inquired.

“Can you see the eye chart on the wall?” If you located the wall, this doc was satisfied.

The doc in search of hernias said, “Cough, but not on me.”

“I didn’t get the cherished ‘4-F’” rating, but had they awarded a 3-E status, I might have come close. But, you know the old bromide—‘close’ only counts in horseshoes.

“I was resigned to my fate: Korea here I come. Only divine intervention could save me now.

“I don’t know if the US Air Force qualifies as an agent for divine intervention, but they came to the rescue.

“During the Korean War, the Air Force was having a tough time acquiring and keeping pilots. No surprise. Some functionary at ‘military intelligence’ decided that if the enlistment period were cut from four to two years they would net more volunteers.

“Well, they netted one more, me, Blumert.

“The prospect of serving in the Air Force for two years instead of being killed or maimed on a desolate Korean mountainside was irresistible.

“The draft board was indifferent. Air Force/Army, it was all the same to them. ‘Go to the Air Force, my son, with our blessings.’ Maybe those weren’t the exact words, but I was off to Basic Training and Aviation Cadet school.

“This is the end of Part I.”

Part II will reveal Blumert as a glamorous Aviation Cadet.

You will learn that he was the only Cadet in his class who didn’t know how to drive a car. (The other Cadets could disassemble and assemble a motorcycle in two hours.)

You will get the details when, Blumert, wearing Air Force Blue, almost won $16,000 on a popular TV Quiz Show.

You will be fascinated (yawn) learning of other notable incidents in Blumert’s Air Force career.

“Finally, Editor Rockwell, I trust that making this information public will put those ugly rumors to bed, once and for all.

(“I’m having some difficulty locating the negatives of those horrid photographs that keep popping up on the Internet. I assure you, they have all been digitally altered.”)

May 3, 2004

THE NEXT GENERATION REMOTE CONTROL—ZAPPING PEOPLE

If you hang by the neck long enough, you get used to it.

Adjusting is part of the human condition. If there is a germ of truth in the “hanging by the neck” maxim, imagine how quickly we adopt new devices and innovations when they bring improvement to the human condition.

There are those walking among us who actually celebrated the arrival of indoor plumbing, and how soon we have forgotten those funny little houses on street corners where people made telephone calls.

But technology’s greatest triumph goes hardly noticed. We can only shudder thinking about the uncivilized, sub-human practice of manually changing TV channels. A process so gross it has been erased from the collective memory.

There are countless instances of the frustrated viewer, unable to lift himself out of the stuffed armchair quickly enough, throwing a shoe at the screen and even some recorded cases of desperate “TV rage” resulting in a gun being fired at the magic box.

In my judgment there is no more essential symbol of human progress than the wondrous “remote control” device that automatically changes TV channels. We affectionately dub it as the “zapper.”

What follows is my TV log for the past week demonstrating how the “zapper” protected my soul and sanity.

BLUMERT’S TV LOG

“We’re lucky this morning at Channel 4 to have Father O’Connor, Rabbi Levy, and Reverend Miller with us discussing the need for additional homeless shelters in the downtown area . . .”

Zap.

“Tom, it’s a thrill to work with you this afternoon at ESPN. Lacrosse has been played far longer than baseball and is truly an American sport. Unfortunately, it has only gained real popularity with an elite group of Northeast colleges. Our game today is between two old rivals . . .”

Zap.

“Zambi’s remarkable mastery of the zither has thrilled music lovers the world over. His CDs and tapes are not available in local stores. If you order now you will not only receive Zambi’s interpretation of the complete works of Beethoven but as a bonus we will include his collection of Indian rhythms from the Brazilian rain forest. Call 800 . . .”

Zap.

“Dr. Teitlebaum has counseled Hollywood stars on their weight problems for decades. His ‘Miracle Diet’ is now available to you. We guarantee you will need an entire new wardrobe in two weeks. (Dr. Teitlebaum denies charges by the FDA that his formula employs the use of tapeworms.)”

Zap.

“At 3 p.m. on C-SPAN 2, we will air the Prohibition Party convention. The session lasts fifty-four minutes and ends with a drunken brawl . . .” (I made that up.)

Zap.

“Today on Meet the Press we have Senator John McCain. He will discuss his heroic effort to institute campaign finance reform. David Broder, Clarence Page, and William Safire make up our distinguished panel . . .”

Zap.

A brilliant high-tech pal has programmed my remote so that it automatically “zaps” the instant the name, image, or voice of any of the following is detected on my TV: Bill O’Reilly, Christiane Amanpour, Wolf Blitzer, Bill Maher, et al.*

I anxiously await the next generation of remote control devices. You point it at any offensive person or group whether on the street, in an office, or anywhere, you click, and they disappear.

A friend suggests that we already have such devices and they are called guns. He misses the point completely. I don’t wish to hurt or maim. I just want the object to disappear from my life.

Others are free to keep my zapped victims or not. Let them do their own zapping.

April 3, 2001

WHY IS THERE A CIRCUS TENT ON MY HOUSE?

When our front door disintegrated upon a neighbor’s slight knock, it was evident we had a termite problem.

“California termites are bad,” a friend reported. (This fellow provides impeccably accurate data as long as you never check him out.) “Some of those critters have mutated and are consuming metal,” he added. (You needn’t check that one out, but things were bad enough.)

Critics indict those on “the Right” as being mean-spirited and unfeeling. Single-handedly, I shatter that myth by maintaining a positive, almost childlike view of the world, which, often, approaches innocence.

For example, when I would see a house completely covered by a tent, I assumed that there was a happy American family putting on their own circus. Now I know better.

The Yellow Pages turned up dozens of pest control firms, but, none with as catchy a name as “Yougottem-Wekillem.”

Their senior technician arrived in minutes and emerged from our basement, his wooden clipboard half consumed, proclaiming, “Dude, you have one terrific case of termites.”

I might have been more confident in him had he not been wearing his flash-lit coal-miner’s hat backward.

Next stop was the Internet. Surely, it would provide truth and guidance. I employed every search engine for “termites” and they all dead-ended with “fumigation.” I didn’t learn much, but my file of recipes now includes four gourmet-quality lethal gases.

For termites, Vicane (sulfuryl fluroide) manufactured by Dow Elanco is the poison gas of choice.

Dow’s warnings on Vicane are scarey. “Exposure to high concentration causes excessive fluid in the lungs, pneumonia, and convulsions.” The EPA adds additional danger signals when reentering after the fumigation. “Reduced awareness, slowed movement, garbled speech, or difficulty in breathing.” (These warnings are very similar to those on the label of my antihistamine.)

A final caution: if you are rendered unconscious, wear a nametag so they’ll know who you were. (I made this one up.)

It was time for action as the eating machine army of bugs had already sent advance scouting parties to taste my antique Brunswick billiard table. An emergency appointment at Yougottem-Wekillem’s pest control center was scheduled and we should have been suspicious when we were advised to wear old clothes.

As we arrived, the police Swat Team prevented the pickets surrounding the facility from harassing us, but the crude picket signs were ugly and conveyed their message: “Extermination equals murder.” “Today termites, tomorrow??”

Still shaken by the protestors from PETI (People for the Ethical Treatment of Insects), I said to the director, “I’ve read all the literature. Let’s go ahead with my tent and the fumigation.”

“Not so fast,” he cautioned, “Before we can ‘tent’ you, there is a five-day waiting period and you have to face the state-mandated panel waiting in the next room. All of the arguments pro and con the extermination of termites will be presented and only then can you make the decision to forge ahead or not. You can be represented by counsel if you wish.”

“This is ridiculous,” I sputtered. “Let’s move this along. They’re eating my pool table!”

As we entered the windowless hearing room, the director donned a powdered wig, and actress Susan Sarandon rose to present the case for the termites.

“What is she doing here?” I stammered in disbelief.

“You’re lucky. Last week they sent Barbra Streisand.”

Sarandon made the same tired argument about all species having equal claim to the planet, but I stopped her in her tracks when I said, “What about the fact that your shoes are made of leather?”

Everybody’s eyes focused on her feet. How could I have known that her feet were bare?

The fellow from the “Altered Genes Will Save The Planet Committee” was next, and his presentation was science at its best. Some were troubled by the notion of sterilizing one termite at a time, but he did get a standing ovation.

Last was a representative from Dow who was a bit difficult to understand because of his gas mask. His message was clear.

“If we follow the advice of those two crazies, what would Dow do with all this poison gas we have inventoried?”

A silent shudder passed through the room.

My concerns were more immediate than his and I quickly voted thumbs up.

Next week the circus tent will cover my house, and the fumigation will proceed.

By the way, can anybody out there take care of my two cats?

February 27, 2001

I HATE BED & BREAKFASTS

In the last episode, our termite-infested house was covered with a giant circus-like yellow tent, and the fumigators were prepared to pump in vicane, a deadly poison gas.

“A real man doesn’t leave his home; a captain never abandons his ship; a shepherd doesn’t desert his flock; a king always . . .”

“Enough, enough already,” my wife sputtered. “The poison gas kills every form of life in seconds. Not even a termite could survive.” (How quickly she forgot the purpose of the fumigation.)

“What about those gas masks I’ve ordered from the Whole Earth Catalog?” I asked smugly.

“That has to be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done, particularly the special order gas masks for the cats. Anyway, I made reservations at the bed and breakfast for four days.”

“Bed and breakfast? I’ll need more than a gas mask to survive that. Cancel the B&B, and book Motel Six.”

“None of the hotels takes pets, you know that.”

“Well, send the cats to the B&B,” I said sarcastically.

A friend, widely known for his prudence in not spending money, presents a strong case for the bed and breakfast concept.

“In most instances,” he says, “the B&B is cheaper than a hotel. Also, you’re not just a customer passing through. At the B&B you are a guest, and after you’ve been there awhile, you’re part of the family.”

“Part of the family? I’ve got enough trouble with my own family, particularly some marginal folks on my wife’s side. The one thing I don’t need is a new family. As far as being somebody’s houseguest, I prefer being a customer. At the Ritz Carlton, it’s always clean and nobody gives a damn who I am.”

I had never set foot in a B&B, so it was with trepidation that we entered “Mi Casa Es Su Casa,” one of the better known B&Bs in our area. I couldn’t stop thinking how much the man behind the desk looked like Norman Bates, particularly since he was wearing a dress that was clearly his mother’s.

“Welcome,” he said, embracing me. “Remember, you’re part of our family. There’s no smoking, no roller skating, no surfing, no phone calls, no faxes, no computers, and no paleolibertarians.”

How could he possibly have known that I was an inveterate roller skater?

“This key is for the front door,” he continued, “this one is for the side door, this one for the basement, and this whistle, only heard by dogs, will alert Killer, the German Shepherd, that you are family and not to be attacked.

“Breakfast is served between 7 a.m. and 7:15, and if you miss it, you lose points.”

“Points?”

“Yes, points. And we will have to check out your blood alcohol levels. By the way, if you are caught with a bottle of booze, you face the death penalty.”

“Death penalty? Why not just take away points?”

“There’s no point in that.” (Collapsing in mirth at his joke.)

“You’re assigned to room 3, the one with the orange door. We call it ‘old Yosemite’.” The air conditioner and the heater are on all the time. We just let them fight it out.”

(He didn’t really say that, I made it up.)

As we entered room 3, it was clear they had made an error as an elderly couple was in the bed.

“Welcome,” the old codger said. “I am Elijah and this is Sarah, and we’re your family. We’re warming up the bed for you, and I can tell you that we like you already. Right, Sarah?”

Sarah burped.

“This is absurd. You folks are going to have to leave and get your own room.”

“We already have a room. We’re in 2. The one with the blue door they call, ‘Donner’s Pass’.”

“Well, what are you doing here?”

Elijah smiled and said, “I told you, we’re family, and we’re earning points.”

Our cats, being much more family-oriented, took to Elijah and Sarah and joined them in the bed.

I don’t know how much I slept that first night, but my new family was remarkably energetic given that their average age was 75. I once thought I heard roller-skating up and down the corridor outside my door and I was tempted to join them, but then I remembered Rule 9.

At 6 a.m. I decided that Starbucks was the most important place in the world. Ladened with a caddy brimming with steaming coffee and bear claws, I attempted to enter my family home, unnoticed, through the side door, but was caught and surrounded by hostile people. My family had turned surly.

“No food from the outside, Rule 8. You lose three points and the food,” said cousin Julius.

At 4 a.m. the following morning we were packing and planning our escape.

“But we can’t go back into the house yet. The poison gas needs another day to dissipate,” said my wife.

“Well,” I said, “what are the chances we’ll survive there?”

“Probably, fifty-fifty.”

“Sounds like pretty good odds to me.”

March 10, 2001

BEWARE THE PHONE CALL FROM THE SHERIFF

My secretary trilled, “Sgt. Preston from the Sheriff’s Department on line 4 for Blumert.” I’d never heard her page me with such joy.

What could they possibly want?

It’s folklore that your entire life flashes before you when faced with imminent death. Getting a call from the sheriff’s department isn’t quite that serious, but my brain conjured up every horrible reason why they wanted me:

Could it be that parking ticket I got in Las Vegas in 1991 that was “lost” and never paid?

No, there is a statute of limitations on old parking tickets and they must have known that I lost $800 on that trip. Anyway, Las Vegas would never use the sheriff’s department to collect a debt.

Oh Lord, now I know, it was the Gore Vidal speech I attended in San Francisco last year. The creep next to me was surely CIA and, like a dummy, I spent the entire evening establishing my anti-war credentials.

He still would never have remembered me, but “old swifty” Blumert made sure to give him a business card.

No, this is still America. They don’t drag you away because you listened to a speech and tried to sell a gold coin to a CIA agent. Not yet.

“Face it, Blumert,” I said to myself. “You know damn well why they want you. It’s because of LRC and those ridiculous articles you write attacking doctors, Rudy, and almost every sacred aspect of contemporary American culture. Well, you’ve finally gone too far and now they’re coming to get you.”

That’s ridiculous. Why would they want me? I’m too much trouble. I need a nap every afternoon, and at 3:00 p.m. there’s a chat group on line that expects to hear from the “Freedom Stud.” They could never take me away from all that.

This was false bravado. I was panicked. My fingers quivered as I grasped the phone.

Blumert: “Sgt. Preston, I would like to serve my time in the federal prison near Palm Springs. Do you know if an inmate can have a low-carb menu? And like Martha Stewart, I’d like to start this Monday and get it over with.”

Sgt. Preston: “Gee, Mr. Blumert, as far as I know the food is better in San Quentin, but the reason I’m calling is to see if we can count on you for 4 tickets for the Sheriff’s Department Annual Square Dance. Can I stop by and pick up a $100 check right now?”

Blumert: “Who is this? Sgt, Preston? You sound like a child. In fact, you sound like my paper boy, Billy Preston.”

Sgt. Preston: “It’s me, Billy. I started on the phones as a lowly Officer on Thursday and I got my Sgt’s stripes yesterday when I sold 400 tickets to the Sheriff’s Square Dance.

“It’s amazing how frightened people are when I call and how easy it is to sell them tickets. A few more sales and I’ll be up for Lieutenant.

“When can I come by to pick up a check?”

Blumert: “Billy, I’ll take 8 tickets if you promise not to mention any of this to my wife when you deliver the paper tomorrow morning.”

I grind my teeth when I take a call from a tele-marketing “slickster.” I suppose they have a place in this world and I oppose any government restrictions on their activities (unless they’re outright crooks). But they sure get under my skin.

On most occasions I won’t take their calls. But sometimes I get trapped and I’ll decide to challenge them—you never win. (See Billy Preston above.) After all, they have a wealth of experience in overcoming the lame protests from their phone victims. The longer the conversation, the weaker my resolve, so I’ve devised an exit strategy.

It goes something like this: “My wife won’t let me talk to you anymore.”

It almost always works. Either they have a wife like that themselves, or they feel so much sympathy that they click off, leaving me to my miseries.

In the old days setting up a “boiler room” to sell securities, collectibles, swamp land, or “worthy causes” was expensive and time consuming.

Obtaining “hard-lined” phone equipment and getting on line was a major project. The phone companies, anxious for new business, generally managed to push the order along, while remaining oblivious to the true activities of the “new customer.”

Next, the “boiler-room” needed people to man the phones. Rounding up an experienced team of “tele-marketers” wasn’t easy. It often meant scouring cheap hotels and other haunts of the “specialty salesman.”

They had to get the word out that “here was a new pitch to separate folks from their money.” The salesmen came from all points, answering the siren’s call.

Things are different now.

Technology has altered the world of the tele-marketing scam. No “boiler room” needed, no phone banks necessary. The tele-marketing enterprise can be reduced to a series of $49 cell phones, located anywhere and changed as frequently as underwear.

The cell phone is the magic key into the land of limitless victims.

The tele-marketing salesman can be operating from Calcutta, or even from prison.

There may be legitimate tele-marketing operations, but how does the consumer know the difference? I’d like to believe that the “market” will weed out the bad apples.

Meanwhile, it’s prudent to avoid ALL tele-marketers, but if one of these phone slicksters gets you, don’t feel too stupid. It happens to the best of us.

By the way, can I interest you in some tickets to the Sheriff’s Square Dance?

October 11, 2004

HOORAY, ITS LEAP YEAR AND WE HAVE AN EXTRA DAY

It seemed like just another Sunday.

237 TV channels competed for my attention. The Food Channel promised a “life/death” cook-off between the Japanese Master and an American Interloper. Squid was featured in every course. A very tempting show.

For an instant, I almost settled in at the “E” (Entertainment) channel where they were readying for the Academy Awards. (This year I actually saw one of the nominated movies and had heard of two others).

I should have been using the time researching the Infomercial on the Exo-Cize Machine for Seniors. (I’m close to making a decision on one of those babies.)

But viewing habits are hard to break. There I was, glued to the same old channels catching middle-aged men in bald-faced lies (politicians), and watching death and destruction in Haiti, the US foreign policy disaster of the week. (It’s Haiti AGAIN, fellas.)

“Something isn’t right,” I muttered. “It must be my new high blood pressure pill.”

“Look, Blumert, it’s February 29th, Leap Year Day, that disorients you. Every four years we go through the same thing,” advised my encyclopedic wife. “For some reason, you lose it on ‘Leap Year Day’.”

“In 1996 you sued the bank for an extra day’s interest. And I don’t even want to think about 1992, when you told the police that they could not legally issue parking violations on Leap Year Day.”

As usual, her recollections are infallible when it comes to criticizing me, and she’s right about February 29th.

There are certain events that people can handle only once in four years.

The Olympics; two solid weeks of observing drug-driven athletes, “up close and personal” and then having to endlessly endure the strains of that inferior music known as National Anthems.

The World Soccer Cup: praise the Lord, Americans have not yet fully succumbed to that disease. But, have no fear. It won’t be long before the USA, USA (delivered with gusto) will be exporting our drunken rowdies to “exciting” soccer matches the world over. (Exciting? Watching a zero-zero soccer match is like watching Pakistan vs. Australia in Cricket.)

American Presidential Elections; It takes four years for the foul air to become breathable again.

Leap Year Day doesn’t even measure up to such events. Because it is so unimportant, it surprises us every time.

Someone tell me, please, why Leap Year Day comes in February? You can always trust politicians to give you snow in the winter. Why not an extra day in May? Or, how about a different month for Leap Year Day each time?

And don’t tell me that February gets it because it’s a short month. Considering it’s horrid weather, February deserves to be a short month.

We’re a democracy aren’t we? Let’s put it to a vote.

Personally, I’m against government being involved at all in determining when we celebrate Leap Year Day.

Let people decide themselves when they want that extra day. Can you imagine the commerce that choice would engender?

You could gift “The Day” to a loved one. If you’re broke, you could sell your extra day on eBay. The potential is endless.

I have some other thoughts on the subject, but I’ll wait until February 29th, 2008, to fill you in.

March 1, 2004

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*Send $1.99 and I will send you Blumert’s V-Chip which blocks out and thus protects your family from these undesirables.