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Journeyman
A Journal for the Inquiring Christian
Vol. 2, No. 1, January 2003
A Kinder, Gentler Iraq
| Overview: I'm afraid I can't divulge how our man in the field got this story. Let's just say that he has sources. |
After a long trip aboard a private, taxpayer subsidized jumbo jet, a small group of visitors arrived at an airstrip on the outskirts of Baghdad. They were taken to one of Saddam Hussein's royal palaces where they were seated at a large wooden table.
The leader of the threesome was a large man sporting a big frizzed-out Afro. A colorful Kente cloth hung awkwardly over his shoulders. The second man was a thin, bald-headed fellow with rather oriental-looking eyes. A big, buxom woman followed, wearing a fluffy pink décolleté evening gown. Shortly, Saddam Hussein came in, greeted them, and extended his hand to the bald fellow:
“If I am not mistaken,” said Saddam, “you are Mr. James Carville. No?”
The man smiled and gave the Iraqi ruler a vigorous handshake. “Good to meet you, Saddam,” he drawled, “That's right. The name's Carville, James Carville.”
Saddam turned toward the other two guests, puzzling over who they might be. . . .
“Oh! For heaven's sake!” explained the man with the Afro. “I should have introduced myself. I'm Al Gore! I bet you've never seen me in my new hairdo. It's part of my revamped image tailored toward winning a bigger slice of the Afro-American constituency. This here's an authentic Kente cloth. It was hand-sewn for me in Swaziland by a couple of Tutsi housewives.”
“Ah!” Saddam nodded. “Of course! Good to meet you, Mr. Gore.”
“No need for formality. You can just call me 'Al'.”
“Very well, Al,” nodded Saddam.
“Most people assume that my first name is Albert. You probably didn't realize it, but my first name is short for 'Al Qaeda.'”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Saddam.
“It sure is. Not only so, but it is a little known fact that my maternal grandfather fought for the Taliban in Afghanistan.”
“Very interesting,” Saddam remarked. “You know, Al, I've always liked your stand on the issues. I intend to funnel a lot of money into your 2004 presidential campaign. I like the fact that you are strong on environmental issues but weak on defense.”
“Well, it all depends,” Gore explained. “It depends on the polling data. I've always got my finger in the wind. A half point change in public opinion could mean the difference between a billion dollar grant to save the sub-Saharan sand flea, and sending in the B-52s to carpet-bomb Baghdad.”
Saddam smiled graciously at his guests, then added, “Gentlemen, as you know, I have called you here because Iraq is in great need of an 'image makeover.' But before we go on, please explain to me who is this fat woman you brought along with you.”
“That there is Anna-Nicole,” Carville blathered. “She's none other than the greatest image makeover specialist this side o' the Great Wall o' China. She's smarter and foxier than a one-eyed polecat. Darn sight better lookin' too. She comes to the table here with a whole hogshead full o' insightful image enhancement recommendations. Right, Anna-Nicole?”
“That's right, Jim,” said Anna-Nicole. Then she turned to Saddam and said, “Listen, honey, I'm going to be honest with you. You have a scary face. I think your face is the reason why people don't trust you. And My! My! We'll have to do something about those eyes. Saddam, my dear, you have very beady eyes. What do you think, Jim? Don't you think those eyes make him look creepy? Don't you think he has a scary face, Jim?”
“Why, yes Ma'am!” Carville nattered. “To be downright honest, ole Saddam has got just about the scariest face I ever seen. T'ain't no wonder nobody never believes nothin' he says.”
Anna-Nicole went on: “I'll tell you what we need to do, Saddam. We'll get those big black eyebrows plucked. That will soften up your mean-looking face. Then we'll shave off that ugly mustache. For goodness sakes! It makes you look like a freakin' bandit! And what about his hair, Jim? Don't you think adding in a little gray would make him look more benevolent and fatherly?”
“Yes, Ma'am!” blubbered Carville. “A gray pompadour. That's the ticket! See what I mean, Saddam? This woman knows what she's talkin' about. A little feminine ingenuity is all it'll take to rework that negative image you been projectin' all these years.”
“Next,” continued Anna-Nicole, “we've got to do something with this palace.”
“Gee,” exclaimed Gore, “what's wrong with the palace? I'd sure like to have a palace like this when I get elected president in 2004.”
“Well, it's all sorta dark and creepy looking,” Anna-Nicole explained. “When the UN inspectors come, we want to project a warm, homey atmosphere. You know what, Saddam? I'd like to redo these walls in pink pastelles. That will project your more nurturing, feminine side. Just wait 'till the inspectors come! I tell you, they'll love it! They won't be able to get over what a sensitive, caring man you've become. I'm surprised you haven't done any of this work already! Don't any of your wives or concubines ever make suggestions?”
“No, Anna-Nicole,” answered Saddam, “I'm afraid we never discussed such things. Only now do I realize my mistake! Is there anything else I should do?”
“Well yes. I don't like those barrels over there, the ones marked 'GB.' They're very ugly. Do you need to have them here, right next to the dinner table? I think those skull-and-crossbones decals are in bad taste. It gives the place a kind of piratey feeling. I I think you should either paint the barrels with pink paint, or move them down in the basement where no one can see them. ”
“Hey,” Gore interrupted, “I think I know what the 'GB' stands for. I bet it stands for 'gubanatorial'.”
“Sho' enough, Al,” squawked Carville, “I bet them barrels is where ole Saddam stashed the votes fo' the next election!”
“Yes, that's right,” said Saddam. “How did you guess? But I bet you don't know what the 'VX' stands for.”
Gore scratched his head. “I sure do, Saddam! That's French for 'VotJs Extr>s'. Those are votes that you couldn't count because they've got hanging chads, or the voter double-punched them or something.”
“Al, my friend,” Saddam remarked, “you are very sharp! With such a steel-trap mind, how is it you did not win in 2000?”
“Actually,” Gore blustered, “I did win. Bush cheated! He had Brother Jeb rig the vote-counting so I couldn't get my fair share.”
“Yes,” agreed Saddam, “I don't like the American voting system. It sounds to me very stupid and unsound. Our system in Iraq is much simpler. We only have one candidate. It works out very well. The proof: I always win every election with over 90% of the popular vote.”
“That sure sounds like a great system,” said Gore, “I wish Bill had issued an executive order setting up that kind of system in our country. I'd have won by a landslide!”
“Is there anything else I must do to improve my public relations?” asked Saddam.
“Of course!” blabbered Carville, “The problem with you, Saddam, is that you're a lousy liar. Every time I seen you on TV, I knowed you were lyin'. Didn't take me mo' than three seconds to figure out that all what you was sayin' was the biggest load of bull since the great Missouri Bison stampede of 1847. Sho', in the good ole days, dictators like yo'self could pretty much say anythin' they dang well pleased. But times have changed. Them UN suits won't put up with no autocrat mouthin' off at 'em. Nope. Common ordinary lies just won't satisfy 'em these days.”
Saddam waxed philosophical. “You, know, Jim, this science of lying fascinates me. You know, I have studied the lying strategies of great rulers through the ages. I really admire Adolph Hitler. Have you read Mein Kampf?”
“Well, that's a start.” Carville blithered, “But Hitler ain't so popular no more. Sho' he's the one come up with the 'big lie' theory. But heck, that technique's fifty years old. Since then, people done figured out whole lot better ways o' lyin'.”
“What am I doing wrong?” asked Saddam, “how can I be a better liar?”
“Thing is, no liar ain't gonna be no good till he learns to enjoy it! That's why ole Bill Clinton was so great. He loved to lie. If a day went by without a good lie or two, why, he'd o' pretty darn near gone catatonic. Thing is, he'd never get through breakfast without lettin' rip with a whole galley full o' whoppers. Yep, that's the way it was. Right Al?”
“Indeed it was,” answered Gore, “Bill was the best liar ever to make it to the White House. You know, when I first started out as Vice President, I really had trouble telling even a small white lie. But Bill encouraged me to develop my talent, and wouldn't you know it, by the end of the first term I was laying out whoppers left and right. In fact, I've become the best liar in the entire world. I think even Bill would agree with me on that one.”
“One thing I could never understand,” said Saddam, “was how Bill Clinton could make it through all those scandals unscathed. How did he manage it?”
“Triangulation, Saddam!” Carville prated, “It's called triangulation. You gotta keep yo' enemies guessin'. If you see they's pokin' into yo' dirty laundry, you just put out some dirtier smellier underwear fo' 'em. That throws 'em off the scent. Ole Bill understood that. Warn't nothin' like a good sex scandal to take people's minds off Whitewater.”
“But doesn't creating a big new scandal just make matters worse?” asked Saddam.
“Well, you see,” Carville blabbered, “when things got too hot with one of his sex scandals, Bill would start some military conflict somewhere. Ole Bill'd go find a globe. He'd spin it around a few times and stop it with his big fat finger. Course, he'd have to do it over again if his finger landed in China or someplace like that. Then he'd call in his generals and tell 'em to fire off a few cruise missiles in that there country. Once them bombs got to droppin', why, faster than a Louisiana Weasel, everybody fo'got all about the sex scandal! What you need, Saddam, is a good sex scandal to take people's minds off the arms inspections. Once the scandal gets goin', them UN inspectors will fo'get all about the job they's set out to do. Won't be able to talk about nothin' else but yo' scandal.”
“Gee, Jim,” remarked Gore, “maybe I should have myself a scandal.”
“No, Al,” raved Carville, “havin' a scandal now won't do you no good. Heck, people will just fo'get all about it. Wait till we get closer to the 2004 elections.”
Carville screwed up his face and prattled on: “You know what the trouble is, Saddam? You got lousy spinmeisters. That's what you got. Where the heck is this Tarik Assiz guy from, anyway? Wyomin'? I tell ya, the guy's a sissy. Instead of always makin' excuses, he needs to go on the attack. It's a waw out there, Saddam. It's a waw, and you gotta do everything necessary what it takes to win it, even if it means gettin' down there on yo' hands and knees and fightin' the enemy like a mangy coyote.”
“Attack?” muttered Saddam.
“Yes, Sir,” ranted Carville, “You gotta drum it into the public that the other guys is the bad guys. It's Bush and the Republicans that's makin' things hard on the po' folk in Iraq. They's why yo' Mamma's eatin' dogchow out of a dogfood can and ya' chilen' ain't got enough vaccine to inoculate a groundhog. It's the Republicans. Them and Rush Limbaugh. They's out ther' with an axe to grind. And they ain't gonna stop 'till they's smeared our good names and ruined our reputations.”
Suddenly, Carville stopped and put his hand on his mouth, as if to shut himself up. “Oh, I almost fo'got! Anna-Nicole, could you fetch up that present for Saddam?"
Anna-Nicole opened her purse and handed a box of cigars to Saddam.
“Thank you!” cried Saddam, “I love cigars! Would you care for one right now?” he asked as he handed Gore one of the large stogies.
“Don't mind if I do!” said Gore. “You know, these cigars are made from tobacco I grew myself on my tobacco plantation in Tennessee.”
“You don't say?” exclaimed Saddam.
“Yes, Sir,” Gore continued, as he clipped the cigar for smoking. “I personally rolled these cigars in our little family cigar factory back home on my farm.”
Just as Gore was about to put the cigar in his mouth, Carville grabbed it away and blustered:
“You idiot! What you doing? Trying to get yo'self killed? How you get off saying them cigars is from yo' plantation? That's a bald-faced lie. You know as well as I do, them cigars is from the CIA. They's all stuffed full o' C-4 explosive or laced with rat poison o' somethin'.”
“Whooh!” Gore sighed. “That was a close one! I almost assassinated myself!
Then who would run in my place in 2004?”
Anna-Nicole smiled as if to say that she was the one.
Well, after this, Carville rambled on for quite a while. Al Gore and Anna-Nicole could see that Saddam was starting to doze off, so Gore said:
“Saddam, it's about time we headed home. As a token of our generosity, we've decided to leave Anna-Nicole for you as a new addition to your harem. All you need to do is sign this release stating that your gross yearly income exceeds one billion dollars per year.”
Saddam shook his head. “Never mind,” he said, “please take her back to America. She's too fat for me.”
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