Sometimes being “out here” in Oregon adds a certain perspective. East Coasters, especially in, on and around the Beltway, or in New York City, because they’re a part of the machine (or think they are), don’t get quite as alarmed as others. Or as alarmed they should be.
The incremental takeover of the powers of government by the executive branch has gotten totally out of hand.
Look at this: The President of the United States has decided he is above the law. Is there any disagreement with that?
He thinks he can ignore any existing law he chooses, violate the Constitution he has sworn to uphold, and by adding a paragraph at the end of any particular law he’s signing, he can nullify that law.
Just a minute, here. We’re allowing this to happen before our very eyes.
This isn’t funny. This isn’t censurable. This is impeachable. This is criminal. This is profoundly anti-American. It is what dictators do.
We’re in deep shit. Deeper than we’ve ever been in before.
We’ve let them steal an election (two really). We’ve let them start a war. We’ve let them bankrupt our country. We’ve let them ship our jobs to other countries. We’ve allowed religious fanatics to infect every aspect of our lives.
We’ve stood by and let this happen. Why did we do that? Because of a few terrorists? Does this make sense to you? Does anything make sense?
And if we try to vote them out of office, we’ve allowed them to place voting machines that give bogus results in our polling places.
What's wrong with us?
Why are the Democrats complicit? Ok, not Conyers and Feingold and Dean. Where are the so-called liberals from so-called progressive Oregon?
It’s easy to see why V For Vendetta is so popular. But as articulately as it laid out the logical conclusion of what’s transpiring in Washington right now, the Masque-ex-machina was a convenient savior. It didn’t require much action by the public, except putting on some masks and walking downtown.
Wasn’t the first American Revolution fought against a King George? Is that what’s required of us?
2006 is the tipping point. Which side are you on?
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Monday, March 20, 2006
The Night I Went To Bush's Resignation With Lewis Lapham
I fell asleep with C-Span on my TV (works better than Ambien), and a copy of Harper’s Magazine on the table next to me, opened to Editor-In-Chief Lewis Lapham’s piece on the case for impeaching George W. Bush.
I began to dream.
I was at a cocktail party on the upper West Side of Manhattan with other journalists. They had all read my book. That’s how I know it was a dream.
I was drinking some wine and talking with Ellen Barkin (always in my dreams) who had been invited to the party by Cal Ripken (for some reason) when Lapham walked up to us and slapped me on the back saying, “Tom, I’ve never laughed as hard as when I read your book last night. I bought fifty of them to give to my staff.” (Did I mention that this is NOT a wet dream?)
I told him I loved his impeachment piece. He moved closer to me and said, “We have before us in the White House a thief who steals the country's good name and reputation for his private interest and personal use; a liar who seeks to instill in the American people a state of fear; a televangelist who engages the United States in a never-ending crusade against all the world's evil, a wastrel who squanders a vast sum of the nation's wealth on what turns out to be a recruiting drive certain to multiply the host of our enemies. In a word, a criminal—known to be armed and shown to be dangerous.”
I nodded.
But then he said, “Tom, I want you to come with me to the White House, Bush is resigning in twenty mintues.”
You don’t question time or travel in dreams so I said, “Love to, Lew.” (Do people call hm “Lew?”)
All at once we were standing in the same room where Nixon gave the farewell address to his staff on August 9, 1974, the day before my birthday. Lapham whispered, “Nice birthday present, huh?”
I chuckled and looked around the room.
It wasn’t only Bush’s resignation but a combination of Nixon’s and Bush’s. Cheney was still old. Rumsfeld was young but still pasty. Pat Buchannan was there and gave me a sharp punch to the kidney. Lapham had my back and told Buchanan he’d never be published in Harper’s again.
What a guy, that Lew.
There was one First Lady. I couldn’t tell which one she was but she had hair like Condi, lips like Pat, and the Xanax/Valium eyes of well, both Laura and Pat.
Henry Kissinger sidled up to me and said, “You know Tom, the President is a man awake in his own nightmare.” I said, “I know how he feels.”
As Jeff Gannon was giving Bob Woodward a lap dance, all the heads turned when a combination of Scott McLellan and Ron Ziegler walked in wearing a full nun’s habit and saying, “Ladies and gentlemen the Presidents of the United States.”
The Justices of the Supreme Court ushered him/them in singing “She's Lump, she's Lump. She's in my head. She’s Lump, she’s Lump. She might be dead”
I turned to Lapham and asked, “Were you ever into grunge?” He gave me a stern look and said, “Nah. I’m strictly old school rap. I used to wear a big watch around my neck at home.”
Bush/Nixon stood at a podium before a wall decorated, as with all his appearances, with a backdrop. This one read, “FTW” over a Harley-Davidson sheild. He had a five o’clock shadow. He stepped up to the mic, hunched his shoulders forward, looked around and said, “Who the hell are you people?”
From behind the curtain, a small voice said, “They work here, Mr. Presidents, they work for you.”
“Well, how the hell was I supposed to know, Turd Blossom,” he said, turning slightly to the left and behind him. “I never did too much work around here.” And then he laughed the Bush laugh, “Neh-neh-neh-neh.” There was never a Nixon laugh.
He turned to the crowd and said, “I think the record should show that this is one of those spontaneous things that we always arrange whenever the President comes in to speak, and it will be so reported in the press.” Then turning to me, he said, “Thanks for coming, Tom. You have to call it as you see it. But on our part, believe me, it is spontaneous. You believe me, don’cha?”
He turned away before I could answer and spread his arms out in that patented Bushian flex, started moving his neck and gave a “V” with both hands.
He continued, “You are here to say goodbye to us, and we don't have a good word for it in English -- the best is ah ravar, uh revere, oh reservoir, oh shit, whatever. Don’t have to worry about that stuff anymore, do I?” Harriet Miers, Condi and the two Bush daughters…or were they the Nixon daughters? They must have been the Bush daughters because I saw them chug the rest of their Jagers. All four of them held signs over their heads, one letter per sign, which collectively read, “L-O-L-Z.”
They squealed like they were in the audience at TRL.
Bush changed from wearing a gray business suit to wearing a white jumpsuit with a wide red belt and said, “Thankyaverrmush.”
Women screamed. Several fainted.
Instantly Bush was wearing a red-striped running outfit. He looked wistfully out to the crowd and said, “I look around here, and I see so many on this staff that, you know, I should have been by your offices and shaken hands, and I would love to have talked to you and found out how to run things around here but I just haven't given a shit. I mean you’ve gotten your share of the loot, haven’t you?”
John Stewart sat in the corner crying, bleeding from a bite in his neck administered by Michael Chertoff, who was standing nearby smiling and slowly licking his bloody lips.
At the podium, Bush was wearing a little boy’s private school uniform and beginning to cry. “Nobody will ever write a book, probably, about my mother. Jeb has the rights all tied up. My mother was a saint when she sobered up for about fifteen minutes in 1963 and apologized for locking me in up the basement for a month. And I think of her, two boys and how she taught us how to turn everything we touched to shit. Yes, she will have no books written about her, especially by you Lapham. Don’cha be going all new-cue-lar on me Lew,” he said with that patented Bush snicker.
At that moment, the real Nixon burst through the doors and said “Wait just a goddamned minute here. I may have been a lot of things but one thing I wasn’t was stupid. And I could pronounce the word nuclear for chrissake. New-clee-ar, you hear that you moron? Buchannan, are you responsible for this crap?”
Pat Buchannan spoke up, “No way, Mr President. In our day we were crooks but we knew how to run things. Let’s go kill a bottle of single malt and leave these amatures be.” They walked out hand in hand.
Bush continued, “Remember, others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them. I guess they’re all winners then, cuz I hate their goddamned guts. But then I win too, don’t I?” Turning back to the curtain he whispered, “Don’t I Turd Blossom.”
“Get this over with, asshole,” came the reply
“And so, we leave with high hopes, in good spirit, and with deep pockets, and with very much gratefulness in our hearts for the amount of money we were able to spread around among our friends.
“I’d like to announce with great sadness that I’ve accepted the resignation of Vice President Dick Cheney”
Cheney wheeled around and shot Lapham in the neck, face and chest with his shotgun. “It’s all your fault, you commie bastard,” the now-former Vice President said with a belch.
“Nice shot, daddy,” Bush cried out, laughing.
He continued, “And so before I leave, as my last act as your President, I’d like to introduce your new President and Vice President. Please welcome The President of the United States Tom DeLay, and the Vice President of the United States, Katherine Harris.”
I woke up. When I regained my senses I thought, “whenever I think something can’t happen with these Republicans, something worse always does.”
I’m staying tuned.
And, thanks for buying my book, Lew. At least in my dream.
This also appears on huffingtonpost.com
I began to dream.
I was at a cocktail party on the upper West Side of Manhattan with other journalists. They had all read my book. That’s how I know it was a dream.
I was drinking some wine and talking with Ellen Barkin (always in my dreams) who had been invited to the party by Cal Ripken (for some reason) when Lapham walked up to us and slapped me on the back saying, “Tom, I’ve never laughed as hard as when I read your book last night. I bought fifty of them to give to my staff.” (Did I mention that this is NOT a wet dream?)
I told him I loved his impeachment piece. He moved closer to me and said, “We have before us in the White House a thief who steals the country's good name and reputation for his private interest and personal use; a liar who seeks to instill in the American people a state of fear; a televangelist who engages the United States in a never-ending crusade against all the world's evil, a wastrel who squanders a vast sum of the nation's wealth on what turns out to be a recruiting drive certain to multiply the host of our enemies. In a word, a criminal—known to be armed and shown to be dangerous.”
I nodded.
But then he said, “Tom, I want you to come with me to the White House, Bush is resigning in twenty mintues.”
You don’t question time or travel in dreams so I said, “Love to, Lew.” (Do people call hm “Lew?”)
All at once we were standing in the same room where Nixon gave the farewell address to his staff on August 9, 1974, the day before my birthday. Lapham whispered, “Nice birthday present, huh?”
I chuckled and looked around the room.
It wasn’t only Bush’s resignation but a combination of Nixon’s and Bush’s. Cheney was still old. Rumsfeld was young but still pasty. Pat Buchannan was there and gave me a sharp punch to the kidney. Lapham had my back and told Buchanan he’d never be published in Harper’s again.
What a guy, that Lew.
There was one First Lady. I couldn’t tell which one she was but she had hair like Condi, lips like Pat, and the Xanax/Valium eyes of well, both Laura and Pat.
Henry Kissinger sidled up to me and said, “You know Tom, the President is a man awake in his own nightmare.” I said, “I know how he feels.”
As Jeff Gannon was giving Bob Woodward a lap dance, all the heads turned when a combination of Scott McLellan and Ron Ziegler walked in wearing a full nun’s habit and saying, “Ladies and gentlemen the Presidents of the United States.”
The Justices of the Supreme Court ushered him/them in singing “She's Lump, she's Lump. She's in my head. She’s Lump, she’s Lump. She might be dead”
I turned to Lapham and asked, “Were you ever into grunge?” He gave me a stern look and said, “Nah. I’m strictly old school rap. I used to wear a big watch around my neck at home.”
Bush/Nixon stood at a podium before a wall decorated, as with all his appearances, with a backdrop. This one read, “FTW” over a Harley-Davidson sheild. He had a five o’clock shadow. He stepped up to the mic, hunched his shoulders forward, looked around and said, “Who the hell are you people?”
From behind the curtain, a small voice said, “They work here, Mr. Presidents, they work for you.”
“Well, how the hell was I supposed to know, Turd Blossom,” he said, turning slightly to the left and behind him. “I never did too much work around here.” And then he laughed the Bush laugh, “Neh-neh-neh-neh.” There was never a Nixon laugh.
He turned to the crowd and said, “I think the record should show that this is one of those spontaneous things that we always arrange whenever the President comes in to speak, and it will be so reported in the press.” Then turning to me, he said, “Thanks for coming, Tom. You have to call it as you see it. But on our part, believe me, it is spontaneous. You believe me, don’cha?”
He turned away before I could answer and spread his arms out in that patented Bushian flex, started moving his neck and gave a “V” with both hands.
He continued, “You are here to say goodbye to us, and we don't have a good word for it in English -- the best is ah ravar, uh revere, oh reservoir, oh shit, whatever. Don’t have to worry about that stuff anymore, do I?” Harriet Miers, Condi and the two Bush daughters…or were they the Nixon daughters? They must have been the Bush daughters because I saw them chug the rest of their Jagers. All four of them held signs over their heads, one letter per sign, which collectively read, “L-O-L-Z.”
They squealed like they were in the audience at TRL.
Bush changed from wearing a gray business suit to wearing a white jumpsuit with a wide red belt and said, “Thankyaverrmush.”
Women screamed. Several fainted.
Instantly Bush was wearing a red-striped running outfit. He looked wistfully out to the crowd and said, “I look around here, and I see so many on this staff that, you know, I should have been by your offices and shaken hands, and I would love to have talked to you and found out how to run things around here but I just haven't given a shit. I mean you’ve gotten your share of the loot, haven’t you?”
John Stewart sat in the corner crying, bleeding from a bite in his neck administered by Michael Chertoff, who was standing nearby smiling and slowly licking his bloody lips.
At the podium, Bush was wearing a little boy’s private school uniform and beginning to cry. “Nobody will ever write a book, probably, about my mother. Jeb has the rights all tied up. My mother was a saint when she sobered up for about fifteen minutes in 1963 and apologized for locking me in up the basement for a month. And I think of her, two boys and how she taught us how to turn everything we touched to shit. Yes, she will have no books written about her, especially by you Lapham. Don’cha be going all new-cue-lar on me Lew,” he said with that patented Bush snicker.
At that moment, the real Nixon burst through the doors and said “Wait just a goddamned minute here. I may have been a lot of things but one thing I wasn’t was stupid. And I could pronounce the word nuclear for chrissake. New-clee-ar, you hear that you moron? Buchannan, are you responsible for this crap?”
Pat Buchannan spoke up, “No way, Mr President. In our day we were crooks but we knew how to run things. Let’s go kill a bottle of single malt and leave these amatures be.” They walked out hand in hand.
Bush continued, “Remember, others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them. I guess they’re all winners then, cuz I hate their goddamned guts. But then I win too, don’t I?” Turning back to the curtain he whispered, “Don’t I Turd Blossom.”
“Get this over with, asshole,” came the reply
“And so, we leave with high hopes, in good spirit, and with deep pockets, and with very much gratefulness in our hearts for the amount of money we were able to spread around among our friends.
“I’d like to announce with great sadness that I’ve accepted the resignation of Vice President Dick Cheney”
Cheney wheeled around and shot Lapham in the neck, face and chest with his shotgun. “It’s all your fault, you commie bastard,” the now-former Vice President said with a belch.
“Nice shot, daddy,” Bush cried out, laughing.
He continued, “And so before I leave, as my last act as your President, I’d like to introduce your new President and Vice President. Please welcome The President of the United States Tom DeLay, and the Vice President of the United States, Katherine Harris.”
I woke up. When I regained my senses I thought, “whenever I think something can’t happen with these Republicans, something worse always does.”
I’m staying tuned.
And, thanks for buying my book, Lew. At least in my dream.
This also appears on huffingtonpost.com
Friday, March 17, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
Oregon's Death With Dignity Numbers Don't Tell the Whole Story
Numbers tell some of the story. Thirty-eight people took their own lives, legally in 2005 under Oregon’s Death With Dignity Act, according to figures just released from the Oregon State Department of Human Services, which keeps tabs on who gets the lethal doses and why they take them or not take them.
That’s thirty-eight deaths out of the sixty-four prescriptions written. Of those who got the prescriptions and didn’t take the medication, fifteen died from their illnesses and seventeen were still alive. Six people who had gotten their prescriptions during 2004 died in 2005 from the medication. Those numbers have been stable since 2002, one way or the other.
They mostly had cancer. They averaged seventy years of age.
There are more numbers, but that’s all they are, just numbers.
Unless you’ve been at the bedside of one of those numbers, as I have, you can only imagine what a blessing the Oregon Death With Dignity Act has been to the handful of suffering souls (one out of every 800 deaths in Oregon) who have had their final life decision in their own hands.
The opponents of the Oregon law warned against all kinds of horrors. They said thousands would be rushing to Oregon to take advantage of the law. That the law would be used to euthanize the disabled, against their will. That the law would be used by family members wishing to rid themselves of the expense of caring for their dying relations. That people would use the law indiscriminately and there would be lines around the block for prescriptions.
None of what the fear-mongers warned came true. The biggest opponent, the Catholic Church was also the biggest donor to the failed effort to knock down the Oregon law in the two ballot initiatives. The fundamentalist-right and the Republicans were right behind them. Does it seem familiar, the use of fear to persuade? It’s the most pervasive tool among those who wish to control other people’s behavior.
We are all afraid of death. Even if you believe that there’s a benevolent father waiting for you in the clouds, or if you believe that there’s a party of virgins-gone-wild as your reward, nobody wants to die. Nobody except those near death, who wish to end their suffering while they still have a little dignity left. That’s why it’s called Death With Dignity.
That’s how Robert Schwartz died, with dignity, surrounded by his friends and family. An AIDS patient, he was the subject of a two year project by me and co-director Greg Bond to document how one person used the law. He died wearing our microphone.
Every year, when the numbers come out I feel it is my duty in, one form or another, to find a public forum to remind people that each of these numbers is a person who wanted to live, but who also wanted to control the end of life. Each has a separate story. Each took the decision excruciatingly seriously when it came to the time to take the medication.
I watched Robert Schwartz chose two dates for his own death, and then change his mind. I watched him chose to have his enlarged spleen removed so that he might rid himself of some of the pain so that he might live a few more months.
So when you read these numbers, take a moment to consider what each of these people experienced. And then think about your own death for a moment. It isn’t easy, but it’s something you’re going to experience, no matter how indestructible you may feel at this moment.
Several other states are considering Death With Dignity laws, using the Oregon law as a model. The opponents will trot out the same old arguments, but mostly what they’re really saying, underlying their statements, is that their opposition is based on their religion. That’s fine for them. It’s not fine for the rest of us.
Fighting for personal rights and against religious tyranny is a fact of life. It has always been and will always be. The use of religious coercion is a fundamental human flaw, but it has nothing to do with how I wish to choose the manner of my own death.
I’m lucky to live in Oregon.
This also appears on huffingtonpost.com
That’s thirty-eight deaths out of the sixty-four prescriptions written. Of those who got the prescriptions and didn’t take the medication, fifteen died from their illnesses and seventeen were still alive. Six people who had gotten their prescriptions during 2004 died in 2005 from the medication. Those numbers have been stable since 2002, one way or the other.
They mostly had cancer. They averaged seventy years of age.
There are more numbers, but that’s all they are, just numbers.
Unless you’ve been at the bedside of one of those numbers, as I have, you can only imagine what a blessing the Oregon Death With Dignity Act has been to the handful of suffering souls (one out of every 800 deaths in Oregon) who have had their final life decision in their own hands.
The opponents of the Oregon law warned against all kinds of horrors. They said thousands would be rushing to Oregon to take advantage of the law. That the law would be used to euthanize the disabled, against their will. That the law would be used by family members wishing to rid themselves of the expense of caring for their dying relations. That people would use the law indiscriminately and there would be lines around the block for prescriptions.
None of what the fear-mongers warned came true. The biggest opponent, the Catholic Church was also the biggest donor to the failed effort to knock down the Oregon law in the two ballot initiatives. The fundamentalist-right and the Republicans were right behind them. Does it seem familiar, the use of fear to persuade? It’s the most pervasive tool among those who wish to control other people’s behavior.
We are all afraid of death. Even if you believe that there’s a benevolent father waiting for you in the clouds, or if you believe that there’s a party of virgins-gone-wild as your reward, nobody wants to die. Nobody except those near death, who wish to end their suffering while they still have a little dignity left. That’s why it’s called Death With Dignity.
That’s how Robert Schwartz died, with dignity, surrounded by his friends and family. An AIDS patient, he was the subject of a two year project by me and co-director Greg Bond to document how one person used the law. He died wearing our microphone.
Every year, when the numbers come out I feel it is my duty in, one form or another, to find a public forum to remind people that each of these numbers is a person who wanted to live, but who also wanted to control the end of life. Each has a separate story. Each took the decision excruciatingly seriously when it came to the time to take the medication.
I watched Robert Schwartz chose two dates for his own death, and then change his mind. I watched him chose to have his enlarged spleen removed so that he might rid himself of some of the pain so that he might live a few more months.
So when you read these numbers, take a moment to consider what each of these people experienced. And then think about your own death for a moment. It isn’t easy, but it’s something you’re going to experience, no matter how indestructible you may feel at this moment.
Several other states are considering Death With Dignity laws, using the Oregon law as a model. The opponents will trot out the same old arguments, but mostly what they’re really saying, underlying their statements, is that their opposition is based on their religion. That’s fine for them. It’s not fine for the rest of us.
Fighting for personal rights and against religious tyranny is a fact of life. It has always been and will always be. The use of religious coercion is a fundamental human flaw, but it has nothing to do with how I wish to choose the manner of my own death.
I’m lucky to live in Oregon.
This also appears on huffingtonpost.com
Friday, March 03, 2006
Am I Headed For the Gulag?
I’m wondering, given the talent and efficiency of the Bush Administration, if I’ll be prevented from flying the next time I travel. Whether I’ll be cuffed and shoved into the back of a black van, flown to a foreign country where I’ll be tortured, raped and possibly murdered because an international terrorist data base found out that I wrote this headline:
"WOMAN USES TAXIS FOR TOILETS: ONE-WOMAN WAVE OF DEFECATION TERRORISM."
That headline appears in my book, “Rabid Nun Infects Entire Convent and Other Sensational Stories From a Tabloid Writer” (Villard/Random House), a collection of totally fabricated stories I wrote for the supermarket tabloid, The Sun.
Wrapping around those stories are quasi tell-all boo-hoos from me about how I made up all the stories and how it drove me nuts thinking of all these horrible things.
I’ve had pretty good media run since the book came out around Thanksgiving; a piece in USA Today, a lot of radio (Public Radio’s “Whad’Ya Know” sold a huge amount of books). I got up at 2:30 am PT to be funny at 3:30 am PT for East Coast radio several times. I did lots of morning zoos, a few with hosts who would rather fart than talk. Most recently, Joe Frazier of the Associated Press did a piece on me and the book.
Have you ever Googled yourself? Of course you have. I have tried to keep tabs on various places the book has landed over the past couple of months. I also have never tired of seeing my own name in print. But last night, when I was rooting around, trying to find out how many papers had picked up the AP story, I found that the story was up on a website called MIPT Terrorism Knowledge Base http://www.tkb.org/NewsStory.jsp?storyID=104906 .
MIPT stands for Memorial Institute for the Prevention of Terrorism, an Oklahoma City based outfit which describes itself as “a non-profit organization dedicated to preventing terrorism on U.S. soil or mitigating its effects.”
They go on to say that “MIPT was established after the April 1995 bombing of the Murrah federal building in Oklahoma City, and it is funded through the Department of Homeland Security's Office of Grants and Training (G&T).
Remember now, I had clearly stated in my book that I had made up all the stories. The cover even says, “All Made Up by Tom D’Antoni.”
MIPT continues, “The United States Congress directed MIPT to conduct ‘research into the social and political causes and effects of terrorism’ through our automated information systems and to ‘serve as a national point of contact for antiterrorism information sharing among Federal, State and local preparedness agencies, as well as private and public organizations dealing with these issues.’ MIPT firmly believes that the accurate dissemination of knowledge on terrorism is a critical ingredient for combating terrorism.”
Their “accurate dissemination of knowledge on terrorism” in my case was catching Joe Frazier’s story which contained that headline about a woman who was crapping in London taxicabs for fun or for some other reason I didn’t specify. I also didn’t specify exactly which terror outfit she was working for, if any. I first wrote the story in the mid 1980’s when terrorism had a different meaning to Americans, and had not yet been used as a political tool to frighten us into voting for idiots who would wind up turning the world upside down and the nation’s population into thralls of the corporations.
Matter of fact, the only place terrorism is mentioned is in the headline. The story lead was a quote from the cabbie, “’It was a hell of a tip, brother.’” She had run out on the fare. Later, the driver told the cops “I jump right out of the cab and open the back door and there it is, right in the middle of the back seat, a whole pile of it. The police came over and he looks in the back and sees it and says, ‘How the hell did this get here?’
“I tell him about the bird who ran out on her fare. He says, ‘Did she have a dog with her?
“I say no, it must have been her.
“He says, ‘Are you serious?’
“I say there ain’t no other explanation, sir. I saw her moving around a lot and fixing her clothes, but when you’ve been a cabbie as long as I’ve been, unless they’re trying to rob you, I don’t pay that much attention to what goes on back there. I just try to give them a good ride and collect my money. Anyways, you don’t figure somebody’s gonna take a…well, do what she did in the back seat of your cab.”
This, THIS stupid story has put me on MIPT’s “Terrorism In the News” section. We can only assume that the story has been forwarded to the proper authorities in Washington, at NSA, to Langley, Homeland Security and other similar points of interest.
MIPT defines terrorism thus, “The term ‘terrorism’ means premeditated, politically motivated violence perpetrated against non-combatant targets by sub-national groups or clandestine agents, usually intended to influence an audience.”
I’m finding it difficult to reconcile this definition with a tabloid story about woman taking repeated dumps in London taxicabs.
Accompanying that story in the same chapter is “Bag Lady’s B.O. Kills Five People On Bus,” also mentioned in the AP story. Even though people die, there is no mention of terrorism, although who’s to say she wasn’t in the employ of Osama? I say. I invented her.
The MIPT “knowledge base” (laughing here) describes itself as, “is the one-stop resource for comprehensive research and analysis on global terrorist incidents, terrorism-related court cases, and terrorist groups and leaders.”
Like the woman who was crapping in taxicabs, from a story I admitted in my book as having made up, that the AP said I made up, that has now probably put me on watch lists.
If I disappear, you’ll know why.
This also appears on huffingtonpost.com
"WOMAN USES TAXIS FOR TOILETS: ONE-WOMAN WAVE OF DEFECATION TERRORISM."
That headline appears in my book, “Rabid Nun Infects Entire Convent and Other Sensational Stories From a Tabloid Writer” (Villard/Random House), a collection of totally fabricated stories I wrote for the supermarket tabloid, The Sun.
Wrapping around those stories are quasi tell-all boo-hoos from me about how I made up all the stories and how it drove me nuts thinking of all these horrible things.
I’ve had pretty good media run since the book came out around Thanksgiving; a piece in USA Today, a lot of radio (Public Radio’s “Whad’Ya Know” sold a huge amount of books). I got up at 2:30 am PT to be funny at 3:30 am PT for East Coast radio several times. I did lots of morning zoos, a few with hosts who would rather fart than talk. Most recently, Joe Frazier of the Associated Press did a piece on me and the book.
Have you ever Googled yourself? Of course you have. I have tried to keep tabs on various places the book has landed over the past couple of months. I also have never tired of seeing my own name in print. But last night, when I was rooting around, trying to find out how many papers had picked up the AP story, I found that the story was up on a website called MIPT Terrorism Knowledge Base http://www.tkb.org/NewsStory.jsp?storyID=104906 .
MIPT stands for Memorial Institute for the Prevention of Terrorism, an Oklahoma City based outfit which describes itself as “a non-profit organization dedicated to preventing terrorism on U.S. soil or mitigating its effects.”
They go on to say that “MIPT was established after the April 1995 bombing of the Murrah federal building in Oklahoma City, and it is funded through the Department of Homeland Security's Office of Grants and Training (G&T).
Remember now, I had clearly stated in my book that I had made up all the stories. The cover even says, “All Made Up by Tom D’Antoni.”
MIPT continues, “The United States Congress directed MIPT to conduct ‘research into the social and political causes and effects of terrorism’ through our automated information systems and to ‘serve as a national point of contact for antiterrorism information sharing among Federal, State and local preparedness agencies, as well as private and public organizations dealing with these issues.’ MIPT firmly believes that the accurate dissemination of knowledge on terrorism is a critical ingredient for combating terrorism.”
Their “accurate dissemination of knowledge on terrorism” in my case was catching Joe Frazier’s story which contained that headline about a woman who was crapping in London taxicabs for fun or for some other reason I didn’t specify. I also didn’t specify exactly which terror outfit she was working for, if any. I first wrote the story in the mid 1980’s when terrorism had a different meaning to Americans, and had not yet been used as a political tool to frighten us into voting for idiots who would wind up turning the world upside down and the nation’s population into thralls of the corporations.
Matter of fact, the only place terrorism is mentioned is in the headline. The story lead was a quote from the cabbie, “’It was a hell of a tip, brother.’” She had run out on the fare. Later, the driver told the cops “I jump right out of the cab and open the back door and there it is, right in the middle of the back seat, a whole pile of it. The police came over and he looks in the back and sees it and says, ‘How the hell did this get here?’
“I tell him about the bird who ran out on her fare. He says, ‘Did she have a dog with her?
“I say no, it must have been her.
“He says, ‘Are you serious?’
“I say there ain’t no other explanation, sir. I saw her moving around a lot and fixing her clothes, but when you’ve been a cabbie as long as I’ve been, unless they’re trying to rob you, I don’t pay that much attention to what goes on back there. I just try to give them a good ride and collect my money. Anyways, you don’t figure somebody’s gonna take a…well, do what she did in the back seat of your cab.”
This, THIS stupid story has put me on MIPT’s “Terrorism In the News” section. We can only assume that the story has been forwarded to the proper authorities in Washington, at NSA, to Langley, Homeland Security and other similar points of interest.
MIPT defines terrorism thus, “The term ‘terrorism’ means premeditated, politically motivated violence perpetrated against non-combatant targets by sub-national groups or clandestine agents, usually intended to influence an audience.”
I’m finding it difficult to reconcile this definition with a tabloid story about woman taking repeated dumps in London taxicabs.
Accompanying that story in the same chapter is “Bag Lady’s B.O. Kills Five People On Bus,” also mentioned in the AP story. Even though people die, there is no mention of terrorism, although who’s to say she wasn’t in the employ of Osama? I say. I invented her.
The MIPT “knowledge base” (laughing here) describes itself as, “is the one-stop resource for comprehensive research and analysis on global terrorist incidents, terrorism-related court cases, and terrorist groups and leaders.”
Like the woman who was crapping in taxicabs, from a story I admitted in my book as having made up, that the AP said I made up, that has now probably put me on watch lists.
If I disappear, you’ll know why.
This also appears on huffingtonpost.com
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