It Will Be Like Vietnam All Over Again

I have never cared for investigative journalism, particularly because it requires a certain amount of note-taking and getting-the-facts-straight-ness that I don’t normally utilize in my day-to-day writing.  The majority of my fans only recognize me as the author of such worldwide best-sellers as Abortion: What Would Jesus Do, If He Had Been Aborted, and Penis Songs: Favre and Me.  But I have come to the realization that even a writer of such immense talent as I can benefit from working outside my proverbial comfort zone, and so, I have agreed, in exchange for certain favors beginning with a daring operation in which editorial staffers will infiltrate Greta Van Susteren’s estate and eliminate any evidence of our previous relationship, including photographs, undergarments, and my personal cell number, to write a series of investigative pieces on notable persons in American politics and popular culture for Patriotic America magazine. 

For my first piece, I decided to focus on a person who could possibly one day be president of our great country, Michele Bachmann, Republican House member from the grand state of Minnesota.  Unsure of how one actually performs investigative journalism, my first move was to seduce Ms. Bachmann into an illicit affair.  I find that the warmth of afterglow can often act as a truth serum.  I began my interview as we lay breathless in my bed, the sheets damp from the steam of our passion.

“I’m a huge fan,” she purred, “And so is my husband.  Could I get you to autograph a copy of your book for him?”

“Of course, my beauty,” I said, taking a copy of Abortion: What Would Jesus Do, If He Had Been Aborted and opening up the cover, “What is the lucky man’s name?”

“Oh,” she giggled, “Why thank you.  His name’s Marcus.”

I scribbled a brief message:

To Marcus,

You’re a lucky chap.

My autograph is currently fetching

$200 on Ebay.

Your Bro,

Fisher

“So,” she cooed, “What would Jesus do, if he had been aborted?”

“Probably not much,” I said, “And he would never even have gotten the chance to be aborted, if you Republicans had your way.”

“Oh, of course, the budget,” she sighed, “Not that it mattered.  We couldn’t even get the darn liberals to cut $317 million from Planned Parenthood.”

“$317 million?  That seems oddly specific,” I remarked.

“Yes, that was my idea,” she replied, “It was the exact box office gross of The Passion of the Christ.”

“Interesting,” I said, “But you were able to cut $500 million in WIC funding.  What exactly is WIC?”

“Something that white people don’t need,” she said, drawing laughter from us both.

“But seriously,” she went on, “WIC is nothing more than a socialistic program that allows mothers to raise their children on the government’s dime.  I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to pay for other peoples’ kids.”

“I don’t even pay for my own,” I said, with a laugh.  This time she glared at me.

“I’m joking, obviously, I don’t have any kids,” I added, awkwardly.

“But even with the cuts to WIC, the proposed budget is a failure,” she said, “As long as Planned Parenthood still ends the lives of precious babies, we’re all failures.”

“But if we allow women to abort all those unwanted babies, maybe we wouldn’t need programs like WIC in the first place,” I reasoned.

“So then we become a bunch of baby killers?” she cried, “It will be like Vietnam all over again.  And we all know how that went.”

I nodded, not really sure how Vietnam went.  Was that the one with Sylvester Stallone or Tom Berenger?  I think it was Sly.  That was a good one.

“Besides, we’ll get ‘em eventually,” she went on, “If they grow up in poverty, chances are they’ll turn to crime, and probably commit a murder somewhere down the road.  We can kill them then, and it’ll be moral.  That’s the difference.  It’s like, who would you rather kill, Snoop Dogg or the kid from Webster?”

“I think Webster might actually be older than Snoop,” I said.

“Really?  Wow, it’s so hard to tell with the blacks,” she replied.

“Yes,” I agreed, “Especially the midget ones.”

“But my point is, it’s better to wait til they’re grown to start killing them,” she said.

“Are we still talking about black people?” I asked, confused.

“I’m talking about anybody!” she cried, “Black, Mexican, um, Indian.  And.  You know.  Anyone.”

“This is such an interesting conversation,” I said, looking at the clock on the nightstand, “But I really have some errands to run today.  Should I call you a cab, or…”

“Oh, no,” she replied, “I’ll just call Marcus.”  She leaned in for a kiss.

“Robert DeNiro!” I shouted, “That’s the one!”

Is White A Color?

“This couldn’t come at a worse time,” Tiger sighed, having clumsily missed another plaster baby seal with his dreadfully awkward swing, “I’ve got my annual NAACP charity golf tournament in a couple of weeks.”

My friend, Tiger Woods, had come to me for a swing lesson, having found my method of developing the perfect swing technique by using the club on plaster baby seals to be extremely beneficial.

“Ah, March Madness,” I said, “I had to give it up myself.  Gambling is a harsh mistress.”

“You know all about those,” K-Ro chimed in, nudging Tiger. 

“Um, that’s basketball,” Tiger said.

“Of course,” I said, “I should have taken you for a cager when you walked in.”

“No,” Tiger replied, “March Madness is basketball.  I’m a golfer.”

“But you just mentioned the NAACP tournament,” I argued, “The avid sports fan refers to that as March Madness.  I should think you would recognize the difference.”

“Did you hear my harsh mistress line?” K-Ro asked.

“This is the NAACP,” Tiger explained, “The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.”

“Colored?” I gasped, “That is quite racist.  I believe they prefer to be called African Separatists.”

“The NAACP works for people of all colors,” Tiger went on, “Black, Latino, Asian, and even Indian.”

“Is white a color?” asked K-Ro.

“It is the Indian who carries my sympathies,” I said, “That noble savage, taken from his ancestral homeland and forced to work in whiskey distilleries.”

“I think you’re confused,” Tiger said.

“The Indians should hold a grudge against Africans,” K-Ro interjected, “They brought homosexuality and AIDS over here and put it on their blankets.”

“Don’t be an ignorant fool,” I said, “It was the white man who created homosexuality.  With those powdered wigs and tight pants.  But, come to think of it, perhaps it was the Indians themselves.  Have you ever seen Gandhi?  No straight man would dress like that.”

I paused to let them reflect on the profundity of my statement.  K-Ro looked into the distance thoughtfully.  Tiger simply shook his head, astounded at my wisdom.

“Nevermind that now,” I said finally, “Let’s return to the business at hand.  And as a reformed gambler I shall offer a little advice to you, my dear Tiger, regarding your tournament.  Bet the 12 seeds.”