Mitt Romney and the Blood of Reagan

From the BBC: The foundation of former U.S. President Ronald Reagan has expressed outrage after a vial said to have held a sample of his blood was put on sale in an online auction.

U.K.-based PFC Auctions says the blood was taken from Reagan after the failed 1981 assassination attempt against him.

The PFC website put the latest bid for the vial at £6,270 ($9,910) on Tuesday….

*********

Mitt Romney campaign headquarters. The candidate is in a meeting with a number of his aides, including advisers Eric Fehrnstrom and strategist Ed Gillespie. He’s displaying an intensely angry side of himself the public’s never seen.

“Goddammit, Eric, how’d it get out that there’s a vial of Reagan blood out there?” Romney storms. “I’ll fire the bastard who leaked it — and we all know I’m good at firing people!”

“Governor — “

“An auction? Can you imagine how dangerous this would be if it fell into Gingrich’s hands ahead of the convention? Bachmann’s?” Romney yells. “That blood can seal the presidency!”

“We’ve confirmed the blood is still in the U.K.,” Gillespie says. “Gingrich’s people are no closer to getting it than we are.”

Romney is fuming.

“With the Blood of Reagan, I could warn against the perils of Big Government spending, while raising the debt ceiling 18 times,” he says. “I could reform Social Security and Medicare without decimating them.”

Romney looks up. “I could be the national father figure everyone craves — not a guy from a Land’s End catalog.”

“Yes, Governor, we’re aware.”

“So why can’t I just give them a million dollars for it? For god’s sake, how many Super PACs do I have?”

“If word got out that you offered a million dollars for the Blood of Reagan, when the highest offer is under $10 thousand,” Fehrnstrom says, “you’d look as out of touch with the middle class as when you bet Rick Perry during the middle of a debate.”

“Is that so, Etch-a-Sketch?” Romney sneers. “I want that blood.”

“But what if there’s a trend? I’m not sure we want to risk having the Tea Party trying to dig up the Founding Fathers,” Gillespie says. “I mean — literally.”

“The Blood of Reagan means a landslide victory,” Romney says, sounding envious. “And invasions that only last a weekend!”

“But there’s something else,” Fehrnstrom says. He shifts uncomfortably. “It could turn you into a Democrat.”

“How so?”

“Well, Obama in many ways is just a 90’s era Republican — especially on defense. And he killed bin Laden. So you’ve got to play to the right of that,” Gillespie says. “Having you on both sides of every issue just hasn’t been working.”

Fehrnstrom nods. “With Santorum’s anti-women crusade, Tea Party fundamentalism and Boehner’s campaign of contrarianism, America’s been pulled so far to the right, that the Blood of Reagan would shift you left on the political spectrum — once and for all!”

“Is that really so bad, for the former governor of Massachusetts?” Romney looks momentarily thoughtful. “I mean, I hate having to disavow Romneycare.”

Fehrnstrom looks alarmed. “Think about it! The Blood of Reagan turns the Republican presidential candidate into a Democrat? You can’t do it! The party would finally collapse in on itself! The Republican narrative can’t take any more blows!”

The room goes quiet.

“What would it look like,” Romney asks softly, “if I turned Democrat?”

“It wouldn’t look too different,” the Gillespie says. “First, you’d hear yourself apologizing for attacking that gay kid, and supporting gay marriage.”

“But it wouldn’t be too bad,” Gillespie says. “You’d still have record numbers of lobbyists. Indefinite detentions. And you’d still have drones.”

Romney thinks for a moment. “But if Gingrich gets the blood? Before Tampa?”

“We spin it as a transparent attempt to manipulate the memory of a pillar of the Republican party, when being Republican meant bringing down Communism without firing a shot, it meant uniting the country during times of national tragedy, not dividing it, and it meant putting the public interest over political sabotage.”

“Besides, it could turn Gingrich into a Democrat, too,” says Gillespie, “just when he needs to get back on the lecture and punditry circuit. He hasn’t got the nerve.”

“What if we get the blood, but hold off on using it unless we really need to?” Romney asks. “Just so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Fehrnstrom exhales.

“We can do that,” he says. “We’ll send someone to the U.K. today. We don’t want the Obama people making a move.”

Romney speaks quietly, but with conviction. “I could really use that blood.”


Also running on The Huffington Post: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mp-nunan/mitt-romney-and-the-blood_b_1537184.html 

Burma - or is it Myanmar? - Goes to See Its Shrink

The nation of Burma shuffles into its psychologist’s office, and plops down heavily in a chair.

“Thanks for seeing me outside our regular appointment,” Burma says. “I had a really bad weekend.”

“Or a really good one,” says the shrink. “The first reasonably free-and-fair election since 1990?”    

Burma looks up but says nothing. It gives a slight shrug to its shoulders.

“Remember, a lot of these things are about changing your perception,” the psychologist says.

Burma puts its face in its hands.

“Are you regretting what you’ve done?” asks the shrink.  “Wait – don’t answer that yet. What am I calling you today? ‘Burma’ or ‘Myanmar?’”

“Honestly – either one is fine.” Burma says, slouching in its chair. “Although I’m feeling in a slightly more Myanmar mood.”

“OK, Myanmar,” the shrink says. “The military’s held power since 1962 when it took over in a coup. They reigned with impunity for decades – hitting all the demagoguery hallmarks – locking up dissidents, refusing elections, forbidding a free press and more.

The last time you held a free election in 1990, the National League for Democracy swept to power. But you refused to acknowledge the defeat at the polls – and locked up democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi in house arrest or jail for most of the next 20 years.”

Myanmar looks up and exhales. “And I changed my name.”

“But 1990 is where the self-loathing really set in.”

Myanmar just stares at the floor.

“Let’s go over again what you didn’t like about yourself,”  says the shrink.

“I didn’t like how everyone began shunning me,” Myanmar says. “No full diplomatic relations. Sanctions. And the US, the UK, a lot of Europe, and a bunch of my own people, they don’t call me by my new name. Everyone keeps insisting on ‘Burma.’”

“China and ASEAN call you by your new name.”

“They just wanted me for trade reasons. For my natural resources - teak, gemstones, access to my ports. It wasn’t really about me.”

“What else?” asks the psychologist.

“And I don’t like being so near the top of the Failed States Index. Did you know the Democratic Republic of Congo scores better than me?”

“Remember, there’s a simple cause and effect here. Your border wars represent the longest running civil war in the world,” the psychologist says.

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“All these things make you angry – and remember, what’s the addiction pattern you fall into when you’re angry?”

Myanmar looks down at the floor.  He mumbles something.

“What’s that?” asks shrink.

“I use absolute power to hurt others,” Myanmar says.

“That’s right. Arresting and re-arresting Aung San Suu Kyi? Refusing aid to victims of Cyclone Nargis? The bloody crackdown on monks – monks, for heaven’s sake, during the Saffron Revolution? How did that make you feel?”

“It felt really good – for a little while. It was…. ecstatic!” Myanmar says, suddenly lost in an excited revelry.  “Ohmygod, I love that feeling of, of – omnipotence.”

The shrink looks at Myanmar steadily. “But we’ve talked about this. When that buzz from absolute power wears off, how do you feel?”

“Worse.”  Myanmar catches his shrink’s eye.  Its tone is like a dejected teenager’s. “Worse than when I started.”

There’s a pause.

“But I’m really proud of you,” the shrink says.

“You are?

“What you did this past weekend?  The first more-or-less free and fair election since 1990?  Even if it was just a by-election, that was a giant step forward!”

“You keep saying, but then why do I feel so awful?” Myanmar asks.

“Because the election and reforming parliament – those are just first steps.  Of course you’re feeling unsteady.”

The shrink stops and leans forward.  “Look at me. This is where you were in 1990.   You’ve got to take responsibility for your actions, without relying on absolute power.  If the NLD’s 40 some-odd parliamentary seats add up to more influence than you thought? No locking anyone up, no disbanding parliament, no falling back on your addiction pattern.”

“But how do I know what comes next?”  Myanmar asks.

“You don’t,” says the shrink.  “Giving up absolute power is about being brave. In a democracy, the fact that you don’t know doesn’t matter.”

Myanmar scoffs. “Sounds a little utopian, if you ask me.”

The shrink leans back in his chair again.  He thinks for a moment.

“You know how you’ll know it’s working? Everyone will start calling you ‘Myanmar.’”

“They will?”

“Once you start acting like you deserve to be called by the name you want, people will start calling you by the name you want,” the shrink says. “Not just China and ASEAN. Your own people. Everyone.”

“Even Hillary Clinton?” 

“Even Hillary Clinton.”

The psychologist smiles.  “They’ll even start calling you ‘Myanmar’ on the Failed States Index.”

Myanmar tries not to - but lets out a short laugh.

“See that? I made you smile. You have got a sense of humor!”

Myanmar’s trying to be mad, but it’s still smiling.

“Ok,” says the shrink. “When do you have to ratify the results of the election?”

“Later this week, maybe,” Myanmar says.

“I want you to call me if you’re having any second thoughts.  Any time, day or night. You have my cell and my home number.”

Myanmar stands up, preparing to go.  “OK.” It’s back to sounding unconvinced.

“You’ve got a lot of people counting on you,” the shrink says. “You can do it this time.” 

“I know, I know,” Myanmar says. “It’s my decision.”

Also on:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mp-nunan/burma-elections_b_1398107.html

Christopher Hitchens Meets Kim Jong Il and the Class of 2011

Inside what looks like the bar in an airport departures terminal. It’s dimly lit, with dark wooden tables and faux leather chairs failing to give the place the touch of class it aspires to. Cigarette smoke wafts through the air.

Nearby, an airport gate which -  despite giving off a faint glow - exudes the unmistakable sense of long-running delays.

Christopher Hitchens, British-American man of letters, is holding court at a table with Muammar Qaddafi and  Osama bin Laden, when a disoriented-looking Kim Jong Il walks in, wearing his classic 1950’s civil servants suit and Floridian retiree sunglasses. His hair is in a perfect pompadour.

“Do join us,” Hitch says, pouring another glass of whiskey. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Collecting himself, Kim sits down and grabs his glass and immediately begins to make a toast.

“As befits the great and glorious reign of myself, the Dear Leader, I’m greeted in paradise by a table of visionaries! Let’s drink to - ”

“Visionaries! You’re no visionaries!” Hitch sneers. He takes a drag on his cigarette. “We saw Vaclav Havel sail on by the other day.  He was a visionary. Alas, there’s a reason why we’re stuck here. As much as it repels me to use such a term, this is purgatory.”

“Purgatory?” Kim asks.

Qaddafi nods.  “I’ve been here for months.”

“We’re the Class of 2011,” Hitchens says.

Osama bin Laden looks unconvinced. “What right do you think you have, Infidel, to share the afterlife with me?”

“Yeah,” Qaddafi says, looking up. “You’re an atheist. Why did you make it even as far as purgatory?”

Hitch shrugs. “At least I’m here by the volition of thought,” he says. “A lifetime spent arguing against the compulsive need of people to invent a celestial dictator to which they willfully subject themselves, because they lack the courage to live lives based on free thought.”

Hitch takes a sip from his drink.

“That, and decades spent combating those who are so arrogant, so corrupt and manipulative, that they assume the ability to hear from a divine being, in order to influence the secular affairs of state.” He downs the rest of his drink.

“You’re just dictators,” Hitch says. 

“Bullshit. You’re here for dissing Mother Theresa,” Osama sneers.

“Yeah,” Kim laughs. “Are you finally going to admit that you’re wrong?”

“We don’t know that yet,” Hitch says, still confident. “We don’t know what’s on the other side of that gate,” he says, gesturing to the faint glow. “It could be nothingness.”

“And it could be the 72 young virgins sent to celebrate my martyrdom,” Qaddafi says.

 “Ohmygod - you were so not martyred!” Osama says. “You died at the hands of your own people – not for the great Allah! There are no virgins for you!”

“Oh, and I suppose getting shot in the face by US Navy Seals instead of an evening spent  jerking off is going to get you face-time with the Prophet?”  Qaddafi retorts.

Hitch ignores them to calmly finish his point.

“Gentlemen, isn’t the fact that I’m here proof that prayer is useless? After all, if supplication were some kind of entrance requirement to meet a Master Deity, then why am I here at all?” Hitch reaches for the whiskey bottle. “The arguments I made in my lifetime remain beyond reproach.”

“I love, love, love supplication,” Kim Jong Il pipes in. “And prostration. Have you seen Pyongyang this week? So much wailing and gnashing of teeth!” 

“Gnashing of teeth because there’s nothing to chew,” says Qaddafi.

“Oh – like your people are so much better off.” Kim retorts. He downs a quick shot. “My son, the Great Successor, will carry on with my work and that of my father, the Supreme Leader.  Your son’s going to end up in the Hague.”

“Maybe you should drop the ‘Supreme Leader’ bit,” Hitch says drily, “if you’re so convinced that you’re imminently going to meet someone who’s even more so. You’re running out of superlatives.”

Kim’s annoyed. “Go waterboard yourself, Hitch.”

“There’s no one greater than Allah,” interjects Osama.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Hitch yells. “He doesn’t exist! And you know it!”

Osama’s about to speak when Hitch stops him.

“If you were so keen on impressing an Almighty Being,” Hitch asks, “what did you ever accomplish? Driving Americans out of the Holy Land – that was just a premise to feed your own sick ego - that had absolutely nothing to do with improving the lives of the Muslims you claim to hold so dear.”

Hitch downs another shot. “What did it get you? Driven out of Afghanistan, a hundred thousand Muslims dead in Iraq.”

“A war that you supported!”  Osama yells.

“Yes, I did!” storms Hitch. He takes a look around. “Come to think of it, where is Saddam? I’ve got a bone to pick with him about the Kurds.”

Suddenly, an electronic chime rings, as if a boarding announcement is about to be made.   The table immediately quiets down, as everyone turns to look at the gate – which glows a little brighter. For a moment, they all hold their breath.

“Nothing,” says Qaddafi, exhaling. “It just does that sometimes.”

“Gentlemen, I think we’re here for a while more,” Hitch says, pouring more whiskey.  “Let’s put money on who’s next.  Assad? Mugabe?”

“Kissinger?”  Kim Jong Il offers brightly.  

Hitch smiles. “I’ll drink to that.”

Qaddafi and His Loyal-ish Translator’s Last Stand

Omar, Qaddafi’s loyal-ish translator, peers carefully from behind a curtain at the scene below him.  He and Moammar Qaddafi are in Sirte, where rebel fighters can be seen amassing in the street - closing in on their secret bunker.   (For more on Omar’s recent history – from Qaddafi’s UN speech to his efforts to contact the Libyan rebels, please read here and here.)

As casually as he can, Omar pulls a cellphone out of his pocket and starts to write a text message.

Suddenly Qaddafi spins him around by the shoulder.

“Who are you contacting!?!” he screams.  Qaddafi’s face is haggard. His Africa broach droops listlessly to one side.

“I am merely sending good wishes to His Excellency Seif al-Islam al Qaddafi,” Omar says, referring to Qaddafi’s son – conspicuous by his absence in the secret bunker. 

Qaddafi looks confused. Disloyalty is something he has a hard time processing.

“I’m just surprised that the rebels have closed in so quickly since you’ve been in charge of the phone,”  Qaddafi says.  “And since they announced that reward for my capture.”

“A coincidence, sir.” Omar does his best to look casual, despite the line of sweat forming on his brow. “I mean, they always knew your hometown was Sirte.”

Qaddafi exhales, losing some of his anger. He paces across the room, sitting down on a sofa.  A pistol lies on a coffee table.

He puts his head in his hands.  Omar takes a quick moment to push the curtain aside, and wave furiously at the rebels below – before shoving the curtain back.

“Are you sure Seif’s merely gone for reinforcements?” Qaddafi looks up. “And he hasn’t fled like the rest of the family to Algeria?”

“I’m certain it’s the former, Your Excellency,”  Omar says.

“Hillary Clinton was in Tripoli the other day,” Qaddafi sighs. “I wish it was Condi.”

He picks up the pistol and starts playing with it.  “My compound has been bulldozed. Everything’s shot to hell.”

Omar listens, keeping an eye on the gun.

“I’ve always sworn I’d die a martyr in Libya,” Qaddafi says. “But lately, I’ve started thinking about arguments I can make in the Hague. I want to make clear to the world the crimes of the CIA, their NATO stooges and that greasy rebel scum.”

Omar’s face falls. He swallows. This was not part of the game plan.

“Honestly, I think martyrdom’s better than the Hague,” he says, tentatively.

Qaddafi looks up.  Omar pauses for a moment before speaking.

“I mean, are people still talking about Milosevic? No. But Hitler comes up in conversation with amazing frequency – 65 years later.”

“Only Muslims can be true martyrs,”  Qaddafi says, eyeing his handgun.

“Exactly my point, Your Excellency.”  Omar swallows hard. “That infidel has had 65 years of glory – all because he knew how to take advantage of a secret bunker moment – not unlike this one.”

“They’d have to listen to me at a trial,” Qaddafi says.

Omar pauses for a moment. He desperately needs to sound neutral. 

“But Your Excellency,” he says gently. “How’d that work out for Saddam Hussein?”

Qaddafi suddenly turns and points the gun at Omar.  Rebel solders can be heard not far from the door.

“And why shouldn’t I take you as my servant in the afterlife?”

Omar tries to remain steady.  “So I can tell your supporters of the glory of your martyrdom.”  He swallows hard.  “Remember, we’ve got to beat 65 years.”

Suddenly – a  gunshot rings out, as rebel soldiers burst into the room.  Qaddafi lies wounded, possibly dead.  And Omar?

Qaddafi’s Loyal-ish Translator Hangs In

(BBC) Libyan rebels have announced an amnesty for anyone within Col Muammar Gaddafi’s “inner circle” who captures or kills him, and a $1.7m (£1m) reward.

Col Gaddafi’s whereabouts are unknown, though rebels have said they think he is still in or around Tripoli.

Rebels fighters have fought running battles in the capital, where pockets of pro-Gaddafi resistance remain.

The fugitive leader has vowed in an audio message to fight until victory or martyrdom.

************

Deep inside a secret bunker, probably in Tripoli.

Moammar Qaddafi, his son Seif al-Islam al-Qaddafi, and Qaddafi’s loyal-ish translator, Omar are watching a satellite television news report. It reveals there is a $1.7 million bounty on Qaddafi.  (Read Omar’s history here.)

 “One point seven million? One point seven?” Qaddafi fumes. “That’s all I’m worth to them?”

Seif exhales. “Perhaps that’s not the part we should be focusing on, Dad.”

“The King of Kings  - worth a measly $1.7 million?”  Qaddafi starts to stride around the room. 

“Has Hugo Chavez returned any of your phone calls yet, Dad?” Seif’s tone is impatient.

“What about Lockerbie? What about Libyan oil? They spend a $200 million a day in Afghanistan! And I’m only worth $1.7?”

“Dad – “

Qaddafi is ranting now. “I am the ‘Mad Dog’ of the Middle East! Reagan said so!”

Omar pipes up.  “The bounty does not come from the American Satan. It’s from the rebels – the National Transitional Council.  In Benghazi.”

Qaddafi stops mid-stride and stares at Omar. An uneasy silence falls over the room.

Seif turns to Omar.  “You think the CIA has nothing to do with this?”

“Of course they do!”  Omar quickly recovers. “I spit upon the them! You are the Glory that is Libya!”

The tension is broken when Qaddafi’s cellphone beeps. It’s a text message.

“Chavez?” Seif sounds hopeful.

“Mugabe.”  Qaddafi sounds disappointed. “Zimbabwe would do anything to have the King of Kings live among them.”

“I am so not living in Zimbabwe,” Seif says. “It’s a basket-case. And Mugabe has a Hitler moustache.”

Seif looks caught in a day-dream.  “Venezuela, on the other hand, is a nice oil state. With an anti-American dictator. You know – a guy you can trust.”

“You should be careful with a cellphone,” Omar pipes up.  “The rebels could trace your locati –“

He stops short.

“What’s that?” Seif snaps out of his revelry.

“Nothing – nothing,” Omar says.

The cellphone beeps again with a text.  “Mugabe – again!” Qaddafi fumes. “And I’ve heard nothing back from Castro!”

“Fidel or Raul?” Seif asks. 

“Either.”  Qaddafi is staring at his phone.

“May I send the reply to President Mugabe?” Omar ventures.  He swallows hard. “I mean, if it’s too much trouble for Your Excellency.”

Qaddafi thrusts the phone at Omar.  “One point seven million.  I spend more on a single party . I spent more on my unit of female bodyguards.”

“I know, Dad. But maybe it’s time we call Chavez again. Our forces can only hold on to the airport for so long. ”

“There will be no spiderhole in my future!” Qaddafi yells. “I will not be in the Hague! I will die a martyr in Libya!”

“Dad! Remember what we discussed!”  Seif is angry. “That’s only if Chavez doesn’t call!”

A cellphone rings. Qaddafi and Seif look up.

“Whoops!” Omar says. “I accidentally dialed my own number!”  

“So now you have my father’s private number?”  Seif looks suspicious.

“Oh! Do I? No problem! I’ll delete it!”  Omar says, as a line of sweat appears on his brow.   “Let me try ringing Mugabe.”

Seif looks at him through narrow eyes. 

“Maybe I’ll try the call in another room,” Omar says, standing. “The signal in a secret bunker - umm, you know?”

“Well, hurry up,” Seif says. “We’re going to try back Chavez.”

“Maybe Syria would take us,” Qaddafi says. “Have we tried Assad?”

“He’s pretty busy this week too, Dad.”

A small voice can be heard up the hall.  “Hello? I need a number for the National Transitional Council.  In Benghazi.”

Omar glances up the hallway at Qaddafi and Seif.

“Yes, I’ll hold.”

Obama Meets Mephistopheles Again. This Time It’s His Soul

Readers of this blog may recall that President Obama takes regular meetings with Mephistopheles – the representative of the Devil – to whom the president has promised his immortal soul, as Faust once did. (Please read the first installment here; and the second installment here.)

Mephistopheles, in human form, often resembles a lobbyist.

Because the Devil has apparently failed to follow through on some of his original promises of unparalleled political success, President Obama told Mephistopheles earlier this year that he is not handing over his soul.  No -  the president put his foot down. And Mephistopheles left more than a little angry.

Washington is now so enveloped in partisan divisiveness, any reasonable person might wonder –  are those two facts related?

Late July 2011

President Obama exhales, frustrated, as his aides, Congressional Democrats and a group of Republican lawmakers leave ­­the Oval Office, having once again failed to come an agreement on the debt ceiling. Pacing, it takes the president a moment to realize one person – one -  well, one being – remains in the room.  He looks up.

“You,” Obama says. “I should have known.”

“And good day to you, too, sir!” says Mephistopheles, smiling.

“Were you in that meeting all along?”

“Funny, but Congressmen simply can’t tell when the representative of Satan has infiltrated their ranks!” Mephistopheles bounces down on a sofa. “Don’t you think that says a lot about them?”

“What is it that you want?” The president’s voice is clipped.

“Well, to borrow a phrase from you, it’s time to talk turkey.”  Mephistopheles is beaming.

President Obama is not in the mood to be pushed around.

“I’ve told you, your boss has been backsliding on our original agreement. An unprecedented mandate to change the national discourse. Matchless political success -  redeeming government in the eyes of a cynical electorate.”

“And I am just not feeling it.” Obama looks up.  “More importantly, I’m not giving him my immortal soul until he turns around his performance.”  

“Yes, well, I took that to him last time I was here,” Mephistopheles says. “You wanna talk fire and brimstone?  By Satan he was pissed!” 

“I’m not sure I care.”

“Oh -  but you do.” Mephistopheles says. “Wildfires across Texas and Arizona?  Nuclear waste in the Sea of Japan? Kind of reminds you of wormwood?”

Obama just glares at him. 

“Well, it should!” Mephistopheles says.  “I thought you knew his handiwork!”

“Listen,” Obama starts  -  but Mephistopheles cuts him off.

“How dare you suggest that you’re not going to hand over your eternal soul!” Mephistopheles jumps to his feet, yelling. “You don’t dictate terms to Lucifer! You don’t  backslide on Beelzebub! You want to wait til he turns his performance around!?!”

“What arrogance!  What hubris!”  Mephistopheles yells. His voice drops dramatically.  “And – if you hadn’t noticed, you reap what you sow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Satan has given you a return on your hubris ‘a thousand times a thousand.’  Like Dominique Strauss-Khan, like an unregulated Wall Street.”

Obama continues to glare.

“And just where, Mr. President, have you encountered hubris?”  Mephistopheles sneers.

Obama’s face falls. “The debt ceiling.”

“But of course!”  Mephistopheles can barely contain his glee - he’s almost dancing. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“The debt ceiling – previously a tiny facet of  budgetary talks only noted by economists and a handful of lawmakers – is now on everybody’s lips!  From the beaches to the Beltway! From hair salons to the Hill!” Mephistopheles is on a roll. 

“It’s been extended 79 times since 1960 – seven times in the last administration, and yet  your political rivals are playing political brinksmanship with the global economy! The global economy! All to make you look bad!”

Mephistopheles really is dancing now.  “That, my friend, is hubris.”

“None of this is news to me,” the president says.   

“Oh, but it’s the question of scale!”

He puts on John Boehner’s voice and pretends to weep.  “All I want to do is ignore my own party putting us trillions of dollars in debt, defy the basic laws of economics and arithmetic, [sniffle]  and make you a one-term president.  [Sob] Robbing from the poor and giving to the rich? That’s the American dream! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo!”

Mephistopheles does a quick spin.

“We’ve reached fabulous new lows in the abdication of facts from the national discourse! All because of your hubris! Isn’t it wonderful?”

Obama starts to speak. But Mephistopheles puts on cartoon voices and starts singing both parts of that old duet.

I can do anything you can do, better! I can do anything better than you! No, you can’t! Yes, we can. No, you can’t.

He bounces up to President Obama to deliver the last line.

Yes, we can! Yes, we can! Yes, we can!

“Fine!” Obama yells. It’s so startling that even Mephistopheles stops. “You can have my immortal soul.”

“In full?” Mephistopheles says.

“Just tell me where to sign.”

With a sudden flourish, Mephistopheles produces an old-fashioned quill and a scroll.

“Now hang on,” Obama says. “If I sign this, then we reach an agreement on the debt ceiling that doesn’t drag into the 2012 election cycle, and I win re-election and we get back to fixing the economy, ending the wars, rebuilding our infrastructure and reforming energy policy?  And we make Washington a little less broken?”

“Well, once facts are abdicated, you can’t just bring them back like that,” Mephistopheles snaps his fingers, producing a tiny cloud of sulfur. “These things take time. Your best bet is winning the Clash of the Narratives.”

“Let me guess,” Obama says. “The Republicans are hard-working, church-going, fiscal conservatives, whose core values help ensure the American dream for generations to come, and America’s global supremacy?  While the Democrats are godless, big-spending, arrogant liberal elites, whose attitudes on everything from the economy to immigration to guns to media to sex to science is the top of a slippery slope toward moral decay and the US’s long-term decline?”

“Aren’t you being a bit hard on yourself?” Mephistopheles grins.

“I happen to believe that our nation is strengthened by its willingness to seize upon complicated challenges,” Obama says. “That the only constant in the world is change.  And it’s our progressive attitude toward reforming the mechanics behind the American dream, such as the economy, tax reform, immigration, universal access to health care, gay civil rights - and ending misguided wars while remaining a leader in the community of nations as a force for stability - results in a greater inclusiveness, greater personal freedoms and prosperity for all.”

Mephistopheles is about to speak but Obama holds up a finger.

“While the implosion of the Republican party prompted them to appeal to a Tea Party base that is clinging to a reactionary American past that frankly, never actually existed. And it results in increased social ills like drug addiction and teen pregnancy, the eradication of rights, the endangering of America, and the absolute brutalization of the middle class electorate that the Republicans claim to hold so dear.”

“Well, then-‘’   Mephistopheles hands Obama and the quill.

President Obama signs away his immortal soul.

“The thing I love, love, love about the Clash of the Narratives? Real Americans vs Smart Americans?” Mephistopheles says, while rolling up the scroll. “It’s the exact same elitism, tied up in different color bows!”

Mephistopheles stands.  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

And in a puff of sulfur, he vanishes from the room.

Post-Script: THE NEW YORK TIMES, August 1, 2011.  WASHINGTON — President Obama and Congressional leaders of both parties said late Sunday that they had agreed to a framework for a budget deal that would cut trillions of dollars in federal spending over the next decade and clear the way for an increase in the government’s borrowing limit.

 http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mp-nunan/obama-meets-mephistophele_b_912062.html

Hi. I’m Hacking. And I’d Like to Nominate Myself for an Award.

Hi. I’m Hacking. Not Hacking Cough. Not Hack’s License. Those are common mistakes. I’m just Hacking. My full name, really, is, “Using Illicit Means to Access Private Information With a Computer,” but I go by Hacking for short.

I’d like to nominate myself for an award. I dunno - the Nobel?  Time’s Person of the Year – or, umm - Phenomenon of the Year? I know it’s only July – but, when you think about it? This year’s been all about me.

First things first.  Hacking is delivering a serious blow to the Murdoch media empire. See – I’m powerful, and they played with me the wrong way.  Sure, it started off small, Hacking the voicemail of celebrities and princes.  But then they started Hacking the voicemails a murdered adolescent, families of the war dead, perhaps even 9/11 victims?

Hey –  I’m just Hacking. I do what I’m told.  It’s not my fault that I came back to bite them. But am I, Hacking, having a major impact on the British government and media establishment? You can bet your voicemail on it!

That one’s pretty obvious. Hacking is bad – I’m a violation of rights - when targeting individuals. But I’m still perceived as p r e t t y   c o o l when done institutionally.

Take Wikileaks. I hang out with them constantly.

See, the thing about our Information Age is that information on its own, just raw, isn’t always valuable. But I’m the guy who makes it valuable, because with me, whatever you’ve got is Ill Gotten Booty.  I mean, as Hacking, I don’t just change our perceptions, I change our perceptions of our perceptions – a stunt that not many of us can pull. 

Yeah, yeah – I know. There are people out there who quibble that because Private Bradley Manning was on the inside, what he did wasn’t Hacking. It was Leaking. Frankly, I know Leaking and the guy’s a bit of a bore. Everything’s always “Deep Throat” this, and “Pentagon Papers” that. And I’m like, Get over it, dude. It was  the ‘70’s.

Granted, the Hacking Manning did was easy – I mean, I own a thumb-drive kind of easy - but it was still Hacking. He achieved access way above his pay-grade; that information didn’t fall within the purview of his job. In fact, I doubt he even understood most of it.  Unlike, say, the Associate Director of the FBI during Watergate. Or Daniel Ellsberg. Trust me: I hear it from Leaking all the *&^$ing time. 

But Wikihacks? I agree: it lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. It lacks…  romance. There’s no way Julian Assange would like it. It makes him sound like a goth European teen, and not the Great Albino Hope for Democracy he likes to think he is.

Anyway, I digressed.  Take Wikileaks.

In the case of what Manning hacked, situation reports and from Afghanistan and Iraq – the information  was striking only for its banality.  Honestly, it wasn’t anything beyond what a routine reader of The New York Times or Washington Post (or The Guardian or the Times of London, or Der Spiegel, etc) had been reading about for nearly a decade.

And the State Department memos?  Most of those –  except in very few cases -  confirmed conventional wisdom and the basic competence of the US diplomatic corps. 

See – the information was suddenly really, really valuable, because it was Ill Gotten Booty. That was all me. Hacking.  And, news outlets like The New York Times and The Guardian and The Washington Post – who already knew it most of it was banal?  They still gave me gloriously huge front pages!

That’s because as Hacking, I changed perception. You can’t tell, but I’ve just taken a small bow.

Now, that Julian Assange?  These days, he’s taking retroactive credit for the Arab Spring, by releasing all those State Department memos. 

The argument is that Tunisians didn’t need Wikileaks to tell them that their government was run by a bunch of corrupt thugs; and a Tunisian fruit vendor didn’t need Wikileaks to tell him that he was the victim of police brutality. But the very fact that Wikileaks released all that hacked information?  That was the spark. The people of Tunisia were suddenly so embarrassed that now the rest of the world knew how their government was run,  they rose up and threw off the yoke of oppression! And that sparked Egypt, and Libya, and Bahrain, and Syria. Etc.

Frankly, I’m Hacking – I do this for a living – and I’m not sure I buy it.  Think of how naïve and sensitive an entire nation would have to be. They have a crappy government for more than two decades, in a region in which they’re surrounded by crappy governments for more than two decades – and suddenly, they essentially blush so hard that they stage a revolution? Vanity’s a bitch, but I’ve never seen her that pissed off. And she’s not that naive.

But for the fact that people are even thinking that?  That’s me. That’s Hacking.

I didn’t just change Perception, with the Ill Gotten Booty of cables released from the US Embassy in Tunis.  I changed Perception of Perception: the alleged impact of that banal information that suddenly became valuable because of Hacking is perceived to be so huge, that people actually believe it set off a wave of revolutions and protests bringing down stagnant regimes and changing the face of the Middle East?

Again, I take a bow.

One last thing -  so I don’t have to hear it later from Leaking. With me? With Hacking? It’s all about the Ends Justify the Means. Julian Assange takes credit for the Arab Spring after the fact, even though he set out to embarrass the US government.

With Leaking?  Ellsberg and the Pentagon Papers? FBI Associate Director Mark Felt? Each set out ahead of time to right a very specific instance of corruption or systemic failure. They knew what it was because of proprietary information they had for working inside the system. They wanted to fix it, and they did.

They weren’t just throwing stones at a system they perceived to be bad – like that goth European teen trying to outsmart the Windows OS with a worm. Because everyone uses Windows, it must be bad! And they weren’t document dumping State Department memos because, if they’re secret, State must be up to no good - in absolutely every instance!

Truth be told, most of the time, I’m not much more than a vandal. Julian Assange and Bradley Manning like to throw stones, simply because they figured out how to pick up a rock.  

Leaking, that old bastard, is going the way of vinyl records. They’re still out there, but the only real interest in them is from collectors. Raw, stolen and hacked information is seen as far more valuable than that which comes with the context, care  - and dare I say principle? - that Leaking provides.

So yes - I’m Hacking. I’m the one having the impact.

And that’s why I deserve an award. The Nobel, maybe. Phenomenon of the Year?  And thank you - I’m taking one last bow. 

Hacking Rupert Murdoch

As the phone hacking scandal consuming Rupert Murdoch’s News of the World  (NOTW) tabloid continues to extend its tentacles across the British media and political establishment -  forcing the shutdown of a 168 year-old newspaper and threatening the Murdoch’s $12 billion takeover of the BSkyB pay channel -  one can only wonder:  What would it look and sound like if we could see the hacked voicemails and texts between Rupert Murdoch, and his son and heir-apparent, James Murdoch – as they deal with the fallout from the crisis?  Below is one possible conversation.    

Voicemail from JAMES: Dad – Listen, it doesn’t look like shutting down News of the  World is going to be enough. I just got a call that government regulators want to block the BSkyB takeover until a criminal investigation into the phone hacking is done. And now they’re saying the Murdoch family has too much media control in Britain. Call me.

TEXT from RUPERT:  Just got your msg.  Too much media control? Where has he been for the past few decades?  And what an ungrateful lout! We got them elected!

TEXT from JAMES:   Probably not the attitude we should assume right now. Call me?

TEXT from RUPERT: It keeps going to voicemail – a security nightmare. You know that! Just send me texts.

TEXT from JAMES:  You really think these are more secure?

TEXT from JAMES:  Fine. As long as we can talk.  How can we contain the fallout?

RUPERT:  We spin it as failings of government.  We cannot bribe Royal Protection officers if they are not willing to be bribed.  Cameron admitted the government and media are “cozy.” Their fault! Not ours!

 JAMES:  Hacking Prince Harry is one thing – he’s seen as a professional playboy.  How do we contain hacking murder victims’ cellphones, and voicemails of families of war dead?

RUPERT:  It will blow over.  Remember: what serves the public interest does not always interest the public. Posh and Becks gave their kid a dumb name. In a few days, we start a rumor that Kate and Wills are expecting.  Or George Michael gets a blow job. I repeat: phone hacking will blow over.

RUPERT:  BSkyB will be ours!  You can’t see, but I am rubbing my hands together maniacally!  :-)

JAMES:  It won’t blow over. It’s spreading.

JAMES:  “The Daily Mirror” is saying that NOTW approached NY authorities about hacking the voicemails of 9/11 victims. 

RUPERT: Scum-sucking tabloid bottom crawlers!!! 

RUPERT: Hah! That was a joke!  LOL!

JAMES:  ROTFLMAO

JAMES:  I’m being sarcastic.

RUPERT:  ROTF…? Will have to ask Wendi what that one means. 

JAMES: Dad -  on the subject of America. We both know I’m no fan of Fox News. Maybe now would be a good time to talk about changing things up a little? Getting rid of Roger Ailes?

RUPERT: After Fox helped swing the election from Gore to Bush with a single phone call?   Son, we WANT to extend the Gospel of Reaganism!

JAMES:  I agree – a great moment for the free market.  Killing Communism. Etc.  Hurrah.

JAMES:  But Dad – they’re a laughingstock now.   Sarah Palin’s all their fault. And she’s no Reagan.

RUPERT:  Reagan was a great man.  He’s why I became an American citizen!  Well, that and rules of ownership for television networks.

JAMES:   Reagan’s dead, Dad, as is Reaganism – he could never get elected now.  And Fox helped kill it.  Time to fix it.  Seriously. 

JAMES:  Think of your legacy.

Uncomfortable digital silence.

JAMES:  Dad? Would you call me?