Dear C,

Phew – that was a close call!  Thank you for warning me that I simply must get my career back into gear before grandparenthood and elder care beckons. Far better to hang on till death do us part to the tail-end of a glorious career, a la Rehnquist, than retire and be left scrabbling for an excuse for why one cannot possibly be called upon to diaper one’s nearest and dearest.  After all, as we both know, dear C, once a woman begins to lose her youth and her looks, pretty much the only way she can hope to engender any respect in the world is by engaging in an unseemly grab for power.

I like too your notion about aquiring ‘sudden obliviousness to all others syndrome’ (SOS), by the way, and suggest that it might be deployed in conjunction with the selective deafness men over a certain age seem to experience with regard to their wives’ voice.  Funny how such disabilities never appear to impact their ability to watch sports…..a facility we can perhaps deploy to accept all offers of jewellry, while ignoring all pleas for blow jobs and other sundry chores?

Faithfully,

P.

Dear C,

In catching up with all the periodical reading I
missed while down in Florida these past  few weeks, what struck me most
was not the surprise engagement between AutomoTom (sic) Cruise and
Katie Homely; nor even the battle for Brad, between Jennifer and
Angelina, important though these stories are. 

No, what resonated with
me the most was a short sidebar in the Economist of June 9, which  recounted in harrowing detail some examples of the ‘brutality’ inflicted upon detainees at Guantanamo Bay by their American interrogators.  According to the article in question, one 21 year old Saudi, who was suspected of taking flight training with two of the September 11 hijackers was accosted by a female interrogator who ‘unbuttoned her blouse and began rubbing her breasts against him,’ before asking: ‘Do you like these big American tits?’

Now, I don’t know about you, but if the oldballandchain found himself locked up on a Caribbean island, being abused this way, I suspect he might think he had died and gone to every non-Muslim male’s idea of Paradise, but apparently the detainee in question did not agree.  When he refused to ‘break’ under the unbearable pressure and agony of this encounter, and spat in his interrogator’s face instead, she proceeded to wipe red magic marker on his face, pretending it was menstrual blood. At this, apparently, our brave hero ‘screamed but did not break.’

My questions for you now, dear C, are twofold:  Firstly, given the hardship endured by such detainees, why hasn’t every last heterosexual male in the West signed up for Islamic jihad? Secondly, can the porn movie of the encounter (no doubt starring Lyndie England) be far away?

Faithfully,

P.

P,

I hate to be the one to point out the error of your ways, dearest P, but I’m afraid, as usual, you are imposing your own Imperialist bias upon the rest of the world.  Personal experience suggests that Muslim males really are leg men.  I clearly share the sense of outrage.  How could we get it so wrong? 

I do wonder, though, as I ponder your thoughts about Guantanamo, how I might create my own little prison at home.  Just today one of my cherubs escaped into the larger world and caused quite an uproar until she was discovered, having slipped into the basement upon her return, unbeknownst to us all.  Although I’d like to believe a nearly nine year old child may not require the immediate deployment of an FBI agent for her daily dog walk, I don’t quite believe it.

Therefore, my new approach to kid management, while waiting for implant of the microchip which tracks all movement (and includes a sotto voce voice muttering "Mother is All Knowing and All Things Good") is to only allow tv and video forms of entertainment.  There will be no outside pool, play or frolicking time.  Sure, they may become obese doughheads, but the house will be tidier and I will have some peace of mind.  Although I’m sure to be persecuted once my theory is "outed," I’ll be too blissed out to care.  And then I’ll just claim it’s all in the name of my religious beliefs, rather like our friends in Gitmo.  Surely, I’ll soon be a hero in DC and my bad acts completely forgiven.  I have, after all, learned a little something since I’ve moved to this town, dearest P.

Faithfully,

C. 

P,

Let’s say you’re a fairly significant DC type, perhaps even a political appointee, working in or near the White House (read here: a pain in the ass Republican). You spend your days being catered to, whether by an assistant or the sycophant fan club you seem to have generated. You return home to a Maryland suburb at day’s end and enjoy a cocktail or two, while waiting for the dinner your wife has so lovingly prepared. The children, if there are any, seem to be invisible, as they spend much time hiding from your self-righteous monologues. As you review the evening paper, your reverie is interrupted by the ominous words, “Honey, please walk the dog.”

Peaches, the dog, is a mere speck of a thing, not much bigger than the palm of your hand. You intend to resist, but fully realize the potential repercussions. You may be the master of your office domain but know what it takes to make the evening a success and it clearly involves helping care for this emasculating creature.

It just so happens you pass by my yard. And this is where Peaches decides to do her business.  I am hovering in the vicinity of the front window.  Peaches completes her mission and you pause: etiquette and city signs clearly dictate that you bag Peaches’ poo and proceed on your merry way. You, aware of your important perch near the White House, and perhaps W himself, aren’t sure the rules apply to you. Make no mistake, they do (you aren’t Dick Cheney after all).

I don’t want to take you down, but I will. The Village authorities and every Democrat in DC will descend upon you faster than flies upon Peaches’ business if you don’t comply with the prevailing norms. You stoop to scoop. I sigh a breath of relief. No calls to make, no interviews to give.

Another evening passes without incident. Perhaps the wife even performs her marital duty. But never forget that I am here, watching, and waiting. I know you’re an arrogant son of a bitch and the day will come when you won’t scoop the shit.   And it will, quite inevitably, hit the fan for you.

Good thing I don’t spend my time sweating the small stuff, huh, dearest P?

Faithfully,

C.

Dear C,

Oh those evil Republicans, taking time out from promoting Big Business and the Oil Interests to let little Peaches crap on your front lawn! Funny, ‘cos I thought it was Democrats who didn’t believe in shoveling shit themselves – they just think everyone else should have to. It’s the same reason they believe in public transportation and public schools – only for other people, you understand. Somehow, when it comes to themselves, they invariably have a very good reason for sending the nanny out in the Humvee to drive little Chelsea to private school.

I’m afraid, dear C, the real problem with the incident of the dog poop in the night you describe lies not with Peaches or her master, but with the homowner involved. A Republican homeowner would have asserted his property rights immediately and forcefully down the barrel of a gun, circumventing the need for the constant surveillance you propose (although I quite understand your liberal impulse to control everyone else’s every move). As for Peaches herself, I am sure she would make a very fetching hearth rug.

Faithfully,

P.