ThePoliticalReview

…The Catholic Church revised its rules for dealing with the sexual abuse of children. Abandoning its medieval ways, the Vatican directed bishops to report cases of sexual abuse to the police, lifted the statute of limitations on victims reporting abuse, ordered the defrocking of priests after they committed their first sexual assault—haha, just kidding. Actually, the Church declared that ordaining a woman a priest was a crime on par with molesting children. Glad to see that the Church has its priorities straight…

…A Chinese man was sentenced to three-and-a-half years in prison for organizing too many orgies. From his computer in the apartment he shared with his mother, he logged on to swingers’ chat rooms using the screen name “Roaring Virile Fire” and organized orgies with the help of a woman who used the screen name “Passionate Fiery Phoenix.” A certain dashing journalist attempted to infiltrate the chat room using the screen name “Flaming Hungry Hungry Hippo,” but the plan was doomed by his inability to speak Mandarin. Now, he just wishes his inbox weren’t flooded by strange Chinese men sending pictures of their genitals…

…Though former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich faced 24 separate charges in his corruption trial, he was only convicted of one charge, demonstrating that a rich, powerful white man can still get an unfair trial in this country…

…Advice to the Tea Party: if you’re so concerned that Obama is setting up a tyrannical, Big Brother-style government, you should pretend you’re gay; there’s no better way to get Obama to ignore you. Calling yourselves “the Tea Party” is a good first step…

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com

Sue Lowden, the Republican frontrunner for Nevada’s Senate seat, declared that to bring down health care costs, patients should barter with their doctors. She stood by her comments, specifically proposing live chickens as a way to pay the doctor. FYI: Assuming you have prime-quality chickens, it would take 157,540 chickens to pay for a heart transplant.

Amazingly, she sounds even stupider in real life:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9o8lVWWDac&feature=player_embedded

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The Vatican tried to downplay their sex abuse crisis by claiming that only five percent of clergymen were involved in sexual abuse cases. Well, then, it’s no big deal: if the Vatican’s numbers say that only one in twenty priests are child predators, then we have nothing to worry about…

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As long as we’re on the topic of the Vatican’s sex abuse, goddamn: http://thisishistorictimes.com/2010/04/this-is-my-body/

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In response to rising suicide rates, an army officer ordered his troops not to commit suicide. What a brilliant solution—how has nobody thought to do this before?

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Covering the eruption of Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull volcano, CNN anchor Rick Sanchez mentioned that he was surprised that there was a volcano in Iceland—he thought that it was too cold for a volcano to exist.

During his coverage of the earthquake in Chile, Sanchez demanded that an expert convert “nine meters [to] English,” then claimed that a 27-foot drop in a part of Chile would generate a 27-foot wave that would hit Hawaii. During that same show, he repeatedly confused Hawaii and the Galapagos.

Rick Sanchez proves that in this country, stupidity is no obstacle to success. In fact, considering the caliber of the American viewing public, it probably helps him.

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com

[EDITOR’S NOTE: At long last, Andrew Luskin's tale comes to a close. To catch up, find previous chapters here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4]

Considering the stresses I had been put under that day, I consider what happened next to be forgivable.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: At this point, Mr. Luskin’s story takes a turn for the macabre, and he confesses to offenses which may be prosecuted under several areas of the law, none of which carry a statute of limitations. Before reading the section I have cut out, I had never understood the savagery and barbarity that lies dormant in the human heart.

I have resumed the story immediately after he finishes describing these depraved and disturbing crimes.]

some kind of cancer that eats souls.

I don’t remember where the squid went, or if I even asked her. I don’t remember when I wound up on the floor inside the tent. I don’t know what time I got up and stumbled across the convention floor toward the exit. I don’t know how I managed to find the exit.

According to my phone records, I called Colin at 7:14 P.M., and the call lasted exactly four minutes. I missed two calls from him at 7:30 and 7:32. Colin and Jeff picked me up outside the convention center. I no longer had the Glenn Beck book—I had thrown it in the trash, fearing somebody would see me with it.

“What’s wrong with you?” Colin asked me when I climbed into the car. “Did they torture you? Were you waterboarded?”

“No,” I replied, swaying back and forth. “They were alright. I liked them.”

“Oh, no,” Colin said to Jeff. “He’s got Swedish syndrome!” Colin spun around to face me. “Dear God! What did they do to you?” he screamed.

“Let’s get waffles,” I replied.

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I woke up the next morning in my bed. With my face pressed down into my pillow, I recounted the previous day’s events. No hangover, I thought. Proof of a loving God.

But when I showered, I found that I couldn’t wash off what had happened, even when I turned the water as hot as it could go. After standing under the scalding stream for a while, I determined that I wasn’t going to feel any cleaner. I stepped out, gently toweled off my tortured skin, and got dressed.

When I walked out of the bathroom, my brother was staring at me.

“What?” I asked.

“You were screaming for twenty minutes straight,” he said.

“The water was too hot,” I told him.

“Why didn’t you turn it down?” he asked.

“I couldn’t figure out the knob,” I replied.

“Why didn’t you get out?” he asked.

“Because I needed to shower,” I replied.

“I’m pretty sure you’re burned,” he said. “Maybe we should go to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” I growled.

“You’re blistering,” he said, “and you just threw up all over the floor.”

I then noticed that I was doubled over in pain and, indeed, I had just thrown up on the floor. “I’ll go to the hospital,” I told him, “but only because I’m in dire need of medical attention.”

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The doctor gave me an ointment, antibiotics, and a referral for psychiatric evaluation. “Pssh,” I told my brother, “I’m not going to do that.”

He nodded at this, but gazed wistfully in the direction of the psychiatric ward. Someday, his eyes said, someday he will be there.

“Not as long as I can beat you up,” I told him.

“What?” he asked.

“Not as long as I can beat you up,” I yelled.

“Not what?” he asked.

“I can tell what you were thinking,” I told him. “Just remember one thing about us crazy people: we may sound absurd, but at least some of us have to be right.”

“That’s stupid,” he said, and I had to agree.

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Andrew Luskin was a freshman in the College of Arts and Sciences. He is no longer allowed within 200 yards of University-owned housing.

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com

[Editor's Note: Andrew Luskin's harrowing tales continue. To catch up, find previous chapters here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3]

We drank and I kept silent until Tom peeped up, asking me, “So how are you going to do it?”

“Well,” I answered, “first we need to obtain a writ of habeas corpus from an appellate court. Then we need to file for amicus curiae.” The men squinted and leaned forward as they tried to follow. Nathaniel had already given up and was now staring into space. “Now, we actually want to get rejected by the court, because that will mean that we set up an a priori situation. Then, the next time the government passes any law that deals with taxation, we can sue.”

By this point, I was two glasses in and starting to feel the effects of the whiskey. Leaning back in his chair, John asked, “So how’s the breach of contract?”

“Huh?” I asked, before remembering that I needed to make all of my bullshit match up. “Oh, yeah. We need to look at the Tenth Amendment and the Fourteenth Amendment. You see, the Constitution codifies the social contract, which is what they’re breaching. If they make any law to tax people after it, then that’s an ex post facto law, which is what we can sue them on. Quod erat demonstrandum, ipso facto, exempli gratia, ergo-nomics.”

“Wow!” shouted Curtis. “You can really sue the government!” The rest of the men were smiling, savoring the feeling: they were going to beat the government, playing the government’s game in the government’s home court.

We kept drinking and another bottle was opened. “Where are you going to college?” Tom asked.

“Washington University,” I answered.

Tom recoiled at the mention of the word Washington, fearing I was associated with the “Washington establishment” and everything that implied. “Washington?” he asked. “Like the state or the, uh, Washington, D.C.?”

“Actually,” I said, “It’s in St. Louis.”

“That’s in Washington?” Steve asked, “I always thought it was in Oregon.”

“A common misconception,” I said, motioning haughtily with my hand.

“Isn’t college really liberal?” somebody asked.

“Sort of,” I replied. “They still teach evolution in biology class, even though that was disproved fifty years ago. But the history courses now go up to Reagan, so they have to give him credit for ending the Cold War.” The men were nodding. “And that’s something no pinko liberal commie professor can take away,” I continued. “I mean, if Reagan didn’t bomb the Berlin Wall, that thing never would’ve come down.”

Tom was nodding so quickly that I feared he was having a seizure. “You…like history?,” he asked. “Have you read Glenn Beck’s books?” I shook my head. “I’ll go get you one.” He stumbled out of the tent.

He returned a couple minutes later and handed me Glenn Beck’s Common Sense: The Case Against an Out-of-Control Government (Inspired by Thomas Paine). “Thanks,” I mumbled.

“It’s really good,” Tom said. “It’s all about liberty and the founding fathers and corruption and tyranny in government.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s great. Liberty is constantly under attack by those activist judges. I mean, where do they get off going around the people to interpret the law? Why do they get to decide what the rule of law is?”

“Yeah!” shouted John. “Like, um…”

“Like how there’s no prayer in schools,” I said. “You know, this country was founded as a Christian nation. The Pilgrims came here for religion, and without it, they never could’ve survived. I know that the town of Salem was almost overrun, but they trusted their beliefs and stayed strong.” John nodded.

“The founding fathers were great,” Tom said.

“Yes,” I said, “yes they were. They were great, great men. And now liberal teachers only care about their flaws, like how they owned slaves…I mean, come on. Thomas Jefferson loved his slaves. Many times.”

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Only one chapter remains... Tune in next week for the thrilling conclusion!

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com

[EDITOR'S NOTE: The following is the third chapter in the increasingly outlandish chronicles of Andrew Luskin's most recent work. I'd like to think it's fiction, but with this guy you can never really know. The first chapter may be found here, and the second here.]

The man reentered the tent with a friend. The friend was chubby, pug-faced, and wore an American flag shirt, the pits of which were soaked. His stench hit me like a toothless, patriotic bull. Christ, I thought, they’re going to use this smell to torture me into giving them the information they want.

The men grabbed folding chairs and set them down in front of me. They sat saddle-style, looking me up and down. The man who trapped me spoke first. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I was just curious,” I responded, figuring it was my best bet.

“Bullshit,” spat the friend.

“What are you doing, huh? What are you trying to get?” the man asked. “Why were you asking Steve those questions?”

“I, um…”

“He’s a fed!” the friend shouted.

“Are you a fed?” the man demanded.

“What? No, of course not,” I answered.

“Then why were you asking those questions?” the man shouted.

I could feel the blood drain from my face. I was sweating all over. I felt cold. My vision was blurry and my hearing seemed distant. I was about to die. I knew it. My body would turn up in the Everglades, half-eaten by an alligator.

“I needed to find out,” I gasped.

There was no response. My vision snapped back and I could see them looking at me quizzically. I had an opening, a chance to save my own life…

“I needed to find out. I needed to do research for—” You idiot, you can’t admit what you’re doing it for! “for a book.” You stupid motherfucker. “Ah-hem. On the books. For a lawsuit on the books.”

“A lawsuit? You say that you’re a lawyer?” the first man asked, confused.

“Well, I’m training,” I said.

“Don’t you have to go to school to be a lawyer?” the friend asked.

The man kept staring at me. “Fine,” he declared, “I’ve got this figured out. He’s coming down here to get evidence against us. To prosecute us.” He leaned back, meeting my eyes with defiant confidence. “We haven’t done nothing wrong.”

“I’m not working for the gover—the feds!” I shouted. “I’m not a prosecutor! I hate prosecutors! Fed prosecutors!”

“Yeah?” the man jeered. “Then what are you doing?”

“I’m getting evidence,” I answered slowly, “to sue.” They won’t kill you over a lawsuit, I told myself.

The two men sat back, sizing me up.

“You’re gonna sue?” the friend asked.

“You’re just gonna sue us, huh?” the man said. “We have the Second Amendment on our side, so you can’t stop us, so you’re trying to stop us by suing us.”

“No,” I replied. “You guys are in the right. You’re on the right…the right side of the Constitution. I’m not going to sue you.”

“You just said you were going to sue us,” the man said slowly.

“No, not you,” I responded. “The government.”

I felt the dynamics of the space change. I was on the offensive now. With confidence, I continued: “I’m going to sue the government.”

The men looked at each other. “You can’t sue the government,” the first man said.

“Shore can,” I said, taking on a Southern accent. “That’s why I’m training to be a lawyer.”

“What can you sue the government on?” the man asked.

“Well, breach of contract, for one.”

“I don’t believe you,” the friend said.

“Well, it’s true,” I giddily replied, adding: “It’s in the Constitution.” I was too ecstatic to be relieved. I had stared down Death and I had given him a kick in the balls. I leaned back in the chair with a smug smile. The first man stared at the ground, thinking, while his friend stared at him—envious, it appeared, of the first man’s ability to think.

“Get Tom,” the man told the friend, and the friend got up and left. The man stood up and began to pace around. He turned and pointed at me.

“Is that true what you’ve said?” he asked me.

“Every word,” I told him.

“You’re going to college?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“You’re going to sue the government?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“You aren’t working for the feds?” he asked.

“Yep—nope—I mean, I’m not working for the feds,” I answered. I smiled sheepishly and he smiled back.

“I’m John,” he told me, and he stuck out his hand.

I got up to shake his hand. “I’m Andrew,” I told him. Fuck Colin, I thought, I don’t need a fake name.

The friend walked into the tent with a mousy man, about five foot six, wearing a button-down shirt and a tie that he nervously fingered. “Tom,” John said to the new man, “this is Andrew. He’s in college and he’s working to be a lawyer. He says he’s gonna sue the government.”

“Hi,” Tom said in a squeaky voice, and I shook his hand. His eyes were wide open. I feared he might have a heart attack at any moment. I turned to the fat friend.

“I don’t think I got your name,” I said, sticking out my hand to shake. “I’m Andrew.”

“Ahm Nathaniel,” the friend said, taking a second to notice my hand. He reached out and shook it slowly, almost daintily—probably a wise move; my hand would have slipped out of his sweaty grip if he had shaken with more vigor.

“Now, Tom knows a lot about the Constitution,” John said, putting a hand on my shoulder to steer me toward Tom and away from Nathaniel. “He’s a teacher, but he sells a lot of books here. And reads ’em, too.”

“That’s how I know what the good ones are,” Tom said.

“Tom, this boy says he’s gonna sue the government,” John said.

Tom looked at me. I waited for him to say something, but he just kept looking. Finally, I said, “Yep. It’s true.”

“You can do that?” Tom asked.

“Sure can,” I replied.

Tom started to scratch the left side of his neck with his right arm. “I didn’t think you could do that,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “the thing is, nobody’s ever tried it before. They’re too scared. But now, the voice of the people is behind us and we can win this thing.”

“Huh,” said Tom.

“Well, if you’ve convinced Tom, you’ve convinced me,” said John. He looked at Nathaniel. “Hey, go get Curtis,” he said, and after thinking for a second, added, “and Steve.” Nathaniel left, and John walked over the corner of the tent. I stood there awkwardly. Tom was staring at the ground, still scratching his neck.

John brought out a milk crate and set in on the floor in the middle of the tent. He dropped to one knee and took out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a number of tumblers, then flipped over the milk crate and set the bottle and glasses on top.

A new man walked in, distinctive as Wonder Bread and almost as white, carrying a paper bag. “Nathaniel said you wanted to see me?” the new man told John. “I didn’t know if you wanted to start yet.”

“Hi, Curtis,” John said. “I’d like you to meet somebody. This is Andrew,” he said, motioning to me. “He’s going to sue the government.”

“You can’t sue the government,” Curtis told John, glancing over his shoulder at me.

“Sure can,” I replied, leaning against one of the tent posts.

“Well, that’s amazing,” Curtis said, setting his bag on the ground and walking over to me. As I shook his hand, I saw John take two more bottles out of the bag and set them next to the crate. He folded up the bag and tossed it aside.

Nathaniel entered the tent, followed closely by the gun dealer whom I had asked about the TEC-9. Nathaniel blubbered something to the dealer, but then John stepped in. “Steve,” John said, “I was wrong about this kid. He wasn’t trying to get information—he wants to sue the government.”

“I’m Andrew,” I said, beaming and extending my hand.

“Steve,” Steve replied, shaking my hand. “Can you really—”

“Sure can,” I interjected. I wiped my hands on my jeans and looked around the tent. Curtis had grabbed more chairs and was setting them up in a circle. Nathaniel was already sitting down. He was red-faced, gasping for air, and even sweatier than before. It took a second to locate Tom. He was standing in a corner of the tent.

John stepped into the center of the circle and rubbed his hands together. He opened one of the bottles and began to fill the glasses. He filled seven glasses, paused, looked around to count the people in the tent, then poured the contents of the seventh glass into the others.

John stood up and the rest of the men moved into the circle. They grabbed the glasses. John handed me a glass and we retreated to the chairs. John raised his glass. “To our friend, Andrew,” John said. “For standing up for what’s right.”

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Fortunately, or unfortunately, the tale does not end here. Check back later for Chapter 4.

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com

[EDITOR'S NOTE: The following is the second chapter in what I can only hope is a fiction piece written by Andrew Luskin. It is bizarre, enlightening, and makes me want to cry on the inside a little. The first chapter may be found here.]

We arrived at the convention center around noon. Jeff drove; Colin rode shotgun. As we drove along the front edge of the coliseum, nearing the entrance, Colin turned around to face me. “We can’t stay here too long or we’ll draw too much attention,” he said. “We’ll just drop you off.” Right outside the entrance, Jeff slammed on the brakes. I jumped out and Jeff sped away before I could even close the car door. As I walked inside, I received a text message from Colin: “If your [sic] not careful, they’ll kill you.” Lovely.

Inside the building, fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. The carpet was a green and yellow checkerboard pattern. As I walked past a bathroom on my way to the main hall, two men in cowboy hats walked out. One man was kneading his crotch; the other was gesticulating wildly. I passed through a set of double doors into the bright wide gyre of the convention floor.

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The first booth I saw was a bookstore. Interesting, I thought, they can read. Propped up front and center was Glenn Beck’s Arguing With Idiots and Sarah Palin’s Going Rogue. Fine, so maybe they can’t read. I kept walking. I wanted to find a gun vendor.

Guns, you see, are the most American of all weapons. Guns are the great equalizer; all bullets are the same coming out of the gun. A 400-pound man in a motorized wheelchair—the American way—has just the same killing power as a world class athlete. Besides, it doesn’t take a college education to learn how to get the gun to fire, just the principles your mother taught at home, like “aim for the critical mass.” When that man in the Rascal pulls on the trigger with his Cheeto-stained index finger, he embodies the American ideal. Truly, the man becomes America: his enormous man-boobs our vast prairies, his congested and frail arteries our debilitated interstate highway system, his sexual repulsiveness our collective frustration, his diabetic gout our national struggle with diabetic gout. Oh, so beautiful the image, I could cry buttery tears!—but back to the story.

I stopped in front of the first gun vendor I saw. Two people were chatting with the booth’s owner, a mustached man in his thirties. When they left, I walked up. He was cleaning a black handgun. “Hey,” I said. “Hey?” Is that how these people introduce themselves? Is there a code word? Did I just give myself away? Damn, I thought, Colin’s paranoia is contagious.

“Hi,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m just looking,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

“Well, look all you want,” he told me. “If you want to see anything, just ask.”

I stared at the gun he was holding. Something about it seemed familiar. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

“Um…it’s a…it’s a gun?”

“This,” he said with a smile, “is—”

“TEC-9! It’s a TEC-9!” I shouted. Thank you, Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, I thought. I was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of nostalgia, sweeping me back to those simpler times, when happiness was running over pedestrians, using the flying car cheat to land on top of buildings, flipping my Infernus sports car off a ramp and crawling out just before it exploded…but those rosy memories of drive-bys and katana attacks soon faded away. The vendor was staring at me. “Um…what?” I asked.

“Yup,” he said glumly, “It’s a TEC-9.”

“Weren’t those popular during the Brady Bill period because you could remove a plate or something and make them fully automatic? You know, bypassing the assault weapons ban?”

He cleared his throat and looked around, nervously scratching his neck. “I, uh…yeah. Yeah, that’s what you did.”

“Did you do that?” I asked.

He looked down and had just opened his mouth to answer when a voice to my side asked: “Hey, Steve, is this guy giving you trouble?” The vendor and I both looked up at the man who said it. He was six-foot-something and weighed about two hundred fifty pounds. He was built like a linebacker who had just retired and decided to grab a few more platefuls at the Chinese buffet. His red face stood out against his blue button-down shirt. The man was looking at the vendor.

“He was asking about the TEC-9,” the vendor said. “Modifying it.” The new man turned to look at me.

“What were you asking him for?” the man demanded, squinting down at me.

“Uh…” I struggled. “Just curious?” I coughed. “Just curious, I guess.”

“Me ‘n’ Nathaniel will take care of this,” the man said. He walked up to me and put a meaty arm on my shoulder, restraining my neck. “Move it,” he growled, and he started to lead me across the floor. Shit, shit, shit, I thought. We passed vendors hawking bumper stickers, popcorn, camouflage apparel. The man swung to the right and led me behind a booth and into a large tent. He released me and grabbed a folding chair. He snapped the chair open. “Sit,” he ordered, “and don’t move.”

Shit, I thought. I had wandered into the wrong situation, and now I was trapped in some gun nut’s back room while he went to get a friend. It was like Pulp Fiction, and I had no intention of having the same situation play out here. I thought of running, but he was doubtlessly carrying several guns. What if he was standing right outside, waiting for me to make a break for it?

Relax, I told myself, just don’t let them find out what you’re doing. I thought of the pen and paper that I had in my pocket. They’ll find out. Well, I’m fucked. Or maybe not…it’s not that incriminating, is it? Did I have anything else in my pockets? In my wallet, a college ID card—shit! They’ll think you’re a typical college liberal—and some cash—where are the conservative icons on your money? Why don’t you have Reagan dollars? If only I had had enough money to carry around hundred-dollar bills—the bills with Benjamin Franklin. Franklin stood up for Republican virtues like hard work, thrift, and sleeping with lots of women who aren’t your wife.

Was I about to die? I could see the rest of my life flash before my eyes. All my dreams for the future—gone! Graduating college—gone! Visiting Europe—gone! Dating a girl named Chloe—gone! Becoming the dictator of a small African nation—gone! Becoming so sucked up in a job and making money that I never had time to enjoy life, leaving so much money behind that my semi-legitimate children find out my name—gone! Because isn’t that the American dream—to labor and sweat and struggle until your family is rich enough to sue each other?

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Unfortunately, the tale goes on. Tune in soon for Chapter 3.

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Just before winter break began, Mr. Luskin informed me that he had an outstanding story in the works, but remained coy, refusing to tell me any details. Eight days ago, after two months had gone by without hearing anything from him about this story, I sent him an e-mail telling him that I was eager to see what he had done. Two days later, I discovered his manuscript on my desk. It was handwritten, missing half of the first page, stapled at irregular intervals, and was stained in patches by a sticky substance with an overripe and disturbingly seductive odor. One of my fellow editors was in the office when he dropped it off, but she only caught a fleeting glimpse of him. She said that he was red-eyed and that his movements were unstable. She went out into the hallway to find all of the StudLife racks overturned.

My attempts to contact Mr. Luskin unsuccessful, I have decided to publish his account, albeit in a censored form. It is not a matter of personal taste but of legal liability—I cannot release the truly disturbing parts of his story without first ensuring that he signs a legal waiver for the obscenity charges that would doubtlessly follow.

What follows is the manuscript as I have transcribed it, with the most disturbing material removed.]

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He is Colin D., a cousin of a friend. He is writing a book. Colin has decided to keep his name secret, using the alias Anthony Kass, to keep himself safe from retribution. If my contribution to his research is any indication, he is quite safe already—I do not believe that anybody will be shocked by his findings, nor do I believe that any vengeful assassin would be competent enough to do Colin in. I will refrain from using his last name out of the fear that he will have an excuse to contact me again. I do not expect to be credited in the book for my assistance to Colin, which is probably for the best. The working title of the book is Right and Wrong: Inside the Dangerous New Conservative Groups in America.

I met Colin in Orlando, Florida on December 30. He had gotten in touch with me by e-mail. “I don’t use Facebook,” he wrote. “A man like me can never be too careful.”

I was eager to meet him—Orlando is not a particularly exciting place when you have no interest in Disney World or Sea World or the Holy Land Experience, a theme park where $30 will guarantee you a chance to see Jesus crucified every few hours—presented, of course, as a musical number—and in between crucifixions, you can wander from gift shop to gift shop. They approach religion differently in Florida: I had never seen Bible-based cereal before I went there. I do not hold a grudge against the Holy Land Experience; I am confident that their Jesus is kept in a larger holding tank than Shamu.

Colin wanted to rendezvous at a Venezuelan café, the identity of which he has asked me to keep secret out of fear of retribution against the owners. He instructed me to sit outside the café at exactly 10:36 A.M., open the Arts section of the New York Times—“It has to be the New York Times”—turn it inside out, and wait for him.

I arrived with the newspaper at 10:30. Not wanting to startle my skittish contact, I waited six minutes to sit down. Within a minute, I noticed a man wearing sunglasses and carrying a messenger bag walking back and forth behind me. After he had pretended to casually browse the storefronts for a couple minutes, I had had enough. I turned around. “Are you Colin?” I asked.

“I’m Colin,” a voice behind me said. I whirled around to face him and saw a short man in his late twenties. He extended his right hand to shake mine, using his left hand to scratch his patchy beard. “That’s my associate, Jeff,” he said, motioning behind me. “I’m sorry for this security measure, but a man like me can never be too careful.”

Jeff pushed by me without shaking my hand. He took a seat across the table and kept his sunglasses on, trying his best to look grim. Colin and I sat down.

“It’s great that you’ve agreed to do this,” Colin said.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Great,” he said. “Now here’s the deal. You need to walk around on the floor of the gun show we’ll take you to and, um…just…just see what you can find.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Anything,” he said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well, like…illegal stuff,” he said. “Like if you see any sales of guns to minors or convicted felons. Find out if there’s something like that going on.”

“How am I supposed to know if they’re selling to a convicted felon?” I asked.

“It’s illegal to sell to a convicted felon,” Colin replied, arching an eyebrow. He looked me up and down for a second, then continued: “So be sure to see if there’s any selling going on to minors or felons. Also, it’s about more than that.” He leaned across the table. “There are some people there…they aren’t the same as you or me. These people have deep-seated racism and hatred for everybody. Tell me if you see any racist activity or plans to overthrow the United States government.” He began to wave his arms in the air, his voice growing more passionate as he struggled to continue. “I mean, these people…they wanna kill everybody in Washington. Everybody.” His eyes were wide. “Do you know what a militia is?” he shouted. “It’s an army to kill anybody who works for the government!”

This last sentence shot out of his mouth with exceptional force, accompanied by a large amount of spittle. He was completely out of his chair, leaning over the table. He wiped his mouth and sat back down. Jeff had not budged.

“So why do you need me?” I asked him after he had calmed down a bit.

“I’m too well known,” Colin explained, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “We need a fresh face to infiltrate their ranks.”

I knew it was bullshit, but the allure of dangerous investigative reporting was too much to pass up. I would be just like the guy who dressed up like a blaxploitation pimp to take on ACORN, except I’m not a semi-retarded ultra-Irish advocate for white privilege. Colin rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “Take notes on everything,” he said, “what anybody says, any prices of anything, descriptions of everybody…can you draw?” I shook my head. “I don’t have a camera,” Colin continued. “Can you use your phone camera to take pictures of the vendors?”

“This is starting to sound really stupid,” I said.

“Ok,” he said, “no pictures. But we need descriptions of everybody, and names, if you can get ’em. And the money’s important. First rule of investigation: follow the money. Follow the money.” I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could: “Follow the money.”

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll do it.” I pocketed the notebook and pen.

“Good,” Colin replied. “Be careful. And follow the money. Let’s go.”

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Come back  soon for Chapter 2!

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com

At the health care summit, Republican Senator Eric Cantor used the 2,400-page Senate health care bill and the White House’s 11-page proposal as props in his discussion. One was too short, apparently; the other, too long. Cantor may be trying to establish the Goldilocks Doctrine, but it’s unclear how this will lead voters to support the Republican proposal.

Here is the Republican proposal in its entirety:

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A UC Davis student is petitioning to make the word “hella” the SI prefix for 10^27. There are uses for it: for example, the mass of the earth is about six hellagrams.

I won’t make the obvious joke about shit-tons, but I think it’s clear that this idea is hella stupid.



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Bristol Palin is going after her babydaddy, Levi Johnston, for child support money. What have we learned from the court documents?

• Levi Johnston earned over $100,000 last year for nude modeling.


• Ironically, the lawyers cite Virgin v. Virgin, comparing Levi Johnston to “Mr. Virgin.”


• Tripp Palin gets socialized health care.

Watch out for those death panels, Tripp.

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Jay Leno is quietly slinking back to his old time spot after NBC’s late-night debacle. I think that Conan should have sucked it up and moved back to his old time slot. It’s not that I like Conan less than Leno—the opposite is true—I just hate Jimmy Fallon much, much more.

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On CNN, Ann Coulter compared the Iraq war to World War II, saying, “they’re both wars.” Seriously.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7EvEAVZNro

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com

Palin and Fox News make a great couple: Fox gives her an audience and Palin draws more in. Although the first couple weeks have been a success, the relationship is rockier than it may seem.

First of all, she’s back and hasn’t changed. Some had hypothesized that Palin spent her time off preparing herself for the national stage in order to avoid repeating her performance in 2008. They predicted that Palin would come back and be able to make coherent arguments and stay on one issue during a thirty-second response, or at least be able to respond to the question “What do you read?” with a better answer than “All of them.” Palin immediately put these rumors to rest, proving during her first appearance (on the O’Reilly Factor) that she still can’t stay on topic and off buzzwords.

Then, she was interviewed by Glenn Beck. Although Beck fawned over her at first, by the end of the interview, he was a bit disaffected. When he asked Palin about her favorite founding father, she responded with an answer so bad that he had to call “bullcrap” in the middle of it:

Uhmm, you know, well, all of them, because they came collectively together with so much diverse, so much diverse opinion and so much diversity in terms of belief, but collectively they came together to form this union…and they were led by, of course, George Washington, so he’s got to rise to the top. Washington was the consummate statesman, he served, he returned power to the people, he didn’t want to be a king, he returned power to the people, then he went back to Mount Vernon, he went back to his farm…

If a person has trouble with a conception of history as childish as Beck’s, they can’t be trusted to tie their shoes right, much less become President. And guess who’s giving hints…

Perhaps because Palin sounds like a kid in class who wasn’t paying attention when called on, perhaps because he’s just jealous that Palin is now getting all the attention—Beck is starting to turn against Palin. He has started to criticize Palin, likely to assert his position in Fox News—“marking his territory.” Either that, or he just wants an excuse for urinating on the floor of the set during one of his meltdowns.

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In case your blood pressure was too low, here’s a little dose of bigotry:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPiJgcV-EFY

That’s New Hampshire State Representative Alfred Baldasaro demanding that the state of New Hampshire repeal its law allowing same-sex marriage. At one point in his rant, he shouts: “What about the Muslims, now? Everybody’s praising the Muslims. They’re killing us. What about them? They want three, four wives.” He goes on to claim that the state sold children to same-sex couples for $10,000.

Of course, this is the man that said in 2007: “I refused to take a shower, eat, drink, and sleep with a gay homosexual.  I don’t knock them because I have them in my family.  I love them…I as a male…do not want to take a shower with a homosexual. If that’s the case, bring in the women and let me shower with women then because it’s not right.  Once again, let me tell you.”

It’s actually reassuring—you know that you’re better than somebody.

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Keith Olbermann came off as pretty desperate the night before the Massachusetts special election, resorting to name-calling and making things up about Scott Brown:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/3036677/#34927839

He seemed even more desperate, defensive, and, more than anything, pathetic the next night, when he issued this “apology”:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/3036677/#34945353

What would be a pathetic moment of bitterness was made a lot worse by the flashing “SCOTT BROWN (R) WINS” at the bottom of the screen. Well, it’s official: Keith Olbermann has descended into self-parody.

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Next Sunday: a barbaric journey into the congested heart of the American political divide.

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com

Congratulations, Somalia. You’ve done better than the United States.

November 20 marked the twentieth anniversary of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC). Marking that day, the government of Somalia promised to ratify the convention, leaving only one UN member-state that has refused to sign on: the United States.

It would have been embarrassing to have let twenty years pass without ratifying the CRC. To have not ratified it at all is mortifying. To be the only country yet to sign—beaten by Somalia—is repulsive. Somalia barely even has a government, let alone one known for its progressive views.

The strongest voices against ratification belong to the Religious Right, which has stood in opposition to the CRC because, as they tell it, it takes away the rights of the parents. Specifically, children would have protected freedom of opinion, freedom of information, freedom of thought, and freedom of religion. Children would have the right to safety, which, although not outlawing all corporal punishment, outlaws the sort that would cause severe mental or physical trauma.

If children have freedom of opinion, information, thought, and religion, they will be harder to indoctrinate. If children are free from beatings, they will be harder to indoctrinate. I’ll follow up on this sort of assholery on a later date, but for now, it’s enough to say that it’s despicable that the United States bases foreign policy on the will of the Religious Right.

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It’s easy to get caught up in the stereotypes and to start to think of Western Europe as a place of snooty progressives who look down their noses at America’s struggles with prejudice. The choice by Swiss voters to ban the construction of minarets shows that America isn’t the only country with douchebags: ours are just more obvious.

Things work a little differently in Switzerland than they do in the United States. The voters are sovereign in Switzerland; their votes are counted and the government submits to the popular authority. The voters can pass a constitutional amendment to do whatever they want.

What the majority of Swiss voters wanted was to stop the construction of minarets. A war against “Islamization”  has been waged by far-right groups, and the campaign for this ban is only part of it. Using words like culture and tradition, they insist that Swiss society will collapse under the weight of these minarets. There are currently four minarets in all of Switzerland; two more were planned.

It’s truly remarkable how pathetic the attempts to hide this blatant racism and xenophobia are. A couple of years ago, the Swiss People’s Party, which led the recent attack on Muslims, distributed posters that advocated “security” by showing a group of white sheep kicking a black sheep off of the Swiss flag.

Ultra-right groups across Europe have picked up on this and are now working on their own legislation. One of the most prominent figures is Geert Wilders, a member of the Dutch Parliament. He has advocated that the Koran be banned and frequently speaks of the “retarded Islamic culture.” Wilders says that he is “very afraid of being linked to the wrong rightist fascist groups.” The right ones, on the other hand…

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Sarah Palin was nearly struck by two tomatoes during a public appearance. It's rare to see vegetables turn on their own kind...

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Glenn Beck put on a new show, The Christmas Sweater. Here’s the story (all characters played by Beck): a twelve-year-old boy doesn’t like the sweater his mother gave him for Christmas at his grandparents’ house. Because he’s rude, his mother decides to drive home during the night. She crashes, she dies, the boy becomes an atheist, runs away, gets lost in a cornfield during a storm, and is saved by a farmer who tells him to be a man. Then he wakes up—it was all a dream. The clichéd story would be bad enough, but Beck felt the need to give all of the characters his own special touch. His sweat, his tears, and his ruddy complexion make him look like an uncooked Christmas ham.

My only solace is the fact that he didn’t make much money off of this. Only 17 tickets were sold in New York City, at a price of $20.

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This is Vladimir Putin as a child: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1e/Vladimir_Putin_as_a_child.jpg

This is Macaulay Culkin, star of the movie Home Alone: http://www.s9.com/images/portraits/6958_Culkin-Macaulay.jpg

Of course, we know how Home Alone would have ended if Putin had been the kid. The bodies would have been discovered when the snow melted, a single bullet hole in each forehead.

Andrew Luskin can be contacted at at.luskin [at] gmail.com