"The Place of the Damned" - by Jonathan Swift

The Place of the Damned
--------------
by Jonathan Swift (1667 - 1745)
All folks who pretend to religion and grace,
Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place:
But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined
The place of the damned -I'll tell you my mind.
Wherever the damned do chiefly abound,
Most certainly there is HELL to be found:
Damned poets, damned critics, damned blockheads, damned knaves,
Damned senators bribed, damned prostitute slaves;
Damned lawyers and judges, damned lords and damned squires;
Damned spies and informers, damned friends and damned liars;
Damned villains, corrupted in every station;
Damned time-serving priests all over the nation;
And into the bargain I'll readily give you
Damned ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy.
Then let us no longer by parsons be flammed,
For we know by these marks the place of the damned:
And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome.
How happy for us that it is not at home! 

"Stolen Winks ..." - by Todd Domke

Stolen winks into the ball-that-knows-all
------------
Todd Domke *
Words from future diaries have appeared in the ball-that-knows-all. From the year 2020, with perfect hindsight, here are some personal reflections on this year's presidential campaign. )

John McCain:

Dear Diary, my friend - Looking back on 2008, a New York Times story about my alleged "romantic" relationship with a female lobbyist was a plus. It neutralized criticism that I was "too old." Good thing I leaked it.

Unnamed former staffers of mine told the Times they suspected the relationship was "romantic" because I winked when I introduced her as "my friend." Hilarious.

I wink all the time, and call everyone "my friend." Well, except a debate when I accidentally called moderator Tim Russert a "fiend."

TV shrinks analyzed me like crazy, including that blowhard, Dr. Phil. "You often lose your temper!" he said, wagging his finger at me. Ridiculous! Still, I suppose I should not have knocked on his noggin and said, "Hello, anybody home?"

Was I my own worst enemy? Not while Mitt Romney was around. What was I thinking, letting him be a surrogate speaker for me?!

"Ol' McCain will be a great president for as long as he lives!" said Mr. Subtle.

I remember how he played innocent when I called him. "Golly, John, it was a slip of the tongue."

Yeah, right. Mitt happens.

Still, I should not have told that reporter I wouldn't pick Mitt for vice president "because I can't afford a full-time food taster."

I should have leaked that quip instead.
__________________

Hillary Clinton:

Dear Diary of Disappointment - I had that 2008 flashback again ...

It's when Bill compared Barack Obama to Jesse Jackson. His gaffe was the tipping point. After that, my candidacy seemed like "Karaoke Night at the Opera."

Why didn't he just announce that I would appoint Ann Coulter as UN ambassador and finish me off in one fell swoop? I still wonder: Did Bill really want me to win? Was he worried that I would outshine him as president, and historians would refer to me as "the good Clinton"?

I'm not a conspiracy nut, but it's not a conspiracy if there's only one guy involved. And I still don't know how Bill talked Barack into picking him as his running mate.
_________________

Mike Huckabee:

Dear Book of Revelations - Before I became host of "Wheel of Fortune," I ran for president.

McCain won the nomination that year, but I gave the best convention speech. True, I borrowed some rhetoric from Democrats ...

"Hope. Change. Inspiration. Those are the things America needs! Will you provide those things, Rush Limbaugh? Will you get behind John McCain? Lead us out of the wilderness into a new frontier! Come home, Rush. Come home."

The applause was incredible. Even though Chuck Norris was standing next to me during the speech (adding his own gestures), I think the delegates were mostly cheering for me.

Indeed, I thought McCain might come out on stage, hold my arm aloft (and Chuck's), and declare, "Mike Huckabee, will you be my running mate?"

Alas, he did not. I saw him peeking at me from behind the stage curtain. But he only winked.
_______________

Barack Obama:

Dear Chronicle of Change - I remember when the 2008 campaign turned nasty. Clinton supporters circulated a photo of me dressed like a Somali elder in Kenya. Predictably, the media went wild.

My supporters retaliated by distributing a picture of Hillary in a dreadful tweed pantsuit. I'm no fashion expert, but the suede elbow patches looked very inappropriate for that cocktail party. Even though it was a shrimp cocktail party.

The conflict escalated. Hillary went on "This Week with George Stephanopoulos" with a photo album.

"I've tried to show restraint and set a nice tone in this campaign," she lied. "For example, here are some pictures I refused to post on my website."

One showed me with bell-bottoms and an afro ... another in a plaid tuxedo ... one where I'm wearing a Davy Crockett cap, at a birthday party for Ted Kennedy.

George Will rescued me. He showed a photo of Sam Donaldson with a Mohawk. It turned out to have been doctored, but it ended the discussion.
_______________

Ralph Nader:

Dear Diary of Personal Sacrifice and Struggle against Corporate Greed and Collusion, Political Corruption and Apathy, Media Hypocrisy and Complicity...

Uh-oh, forgot what I was going to write. Anyway, my campaign is fine. You know what they say, sixth time is a charm.
__________________

Bill Clinton:

Yo, Diary - I had lunch with John McCain today.

We reminisced about 2008. I said, "You know, I didn't sink Hillary on purpose."

He just winked. I wonder what he meant by that.
_____________________________

* Todd Domke is a Boston area Republican political analyst, public relations strategist, and author. This article is from Boston Globe on 02/28/2008.
© Copyright 2008 Globe Newspaper Company.

the revenge of e e cummings - by The Boston Globe

the revenge of e.e. cummings
-----------------
Boston Globe Editorial - April 29, 2008




(Item: A new study warns that writing text messages could hurt a writer's command of standardized English.)

WE HAD to LOL when we read how txt-msg lingo is replacing stndrd english in student academic pprs. 1 casualty of da trend is uz of capital letter to start a sentence. kids feel free to lowercase everything. pnktu8n is also dissed. tchaz try to help but its often 2 l8.

new paragraphs r not uzed in txting either. kids prolly think all dis iz ok cuz even Richard Sterling, emeritus xecutiv director of the ntl riting prjct, gives it the nod. natl riting prjct is sposd 2 improve riting instruxn in americas schoolz.

"i think in the future, capitalization will disappear," he sed in the nytimes. 4 lazy students dis is 2G2BT!

a big natl study by the College Board and Pew Project on the Internet and American Life finds teenagers riting more b/c of txting but in a hybrid language with conventions of its own: call it Textlish. they don't consider it frml english but 64 percent admit it seeps into their writing at school.

we get da need for shorthand when thumbs fly on tiny keypads. but we thot technology wd enhance communication, not blur every boundary b/w frml language and slang. and dont even get us started on emoticons!

1 yng friend of rs recently sent us a hand-ritten thank-u note. we were thrilled at 1st but her spelling wuz awful b/c deres no spellcheck for pen and ppr. same ish w/ txting. ppl get uzd 2 slang and 4get the real words. btw, all of us w/ email addresses r guilty 2, since email usernames r all lowercase and include many weird squiggles. somehow, tho, gnr8ns of secys managed to transl8 Gregg or Pitman shorthand squiggles n2 grammatically correct correspondence 4 their bosses.

well, tempora quid faciunt. dis not lingo but latin: times change. early america's founders wud uppercase almost every noun; maybe Sterling really is a visionary. Still, on the 25th anniversary of "A Nation at Risk," the seminal report on America's educational challenges, who wudda thot the big threat to riting wd b the cellfone?
________________________________________
© Copyright 2008 Globe Newspaper Company.

The Great Art Buchwald - by TPO

Art Buchwald (1925 - 2000)
Sa Liaison Française (His French Connection)
On the "antipathy between the French and Americans" ...

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
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Le Grande Thanksgiving

By Art Buchwald
Thursday, November 24, 2005© 2005  The Washington Post Company
[This confidential column was leaked to me by a high government official in the Plymouth colony on the condition that I not reveal his name.]

One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant.

Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims ( Pèlerins ) who fled from l'Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World ( le Nouveau Monde ) where they could shoot Indians ( les Peaux-Rouges ) and eat turkey ( dinde ) to their hearts' content.

They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Américaine ) in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or Fleur de Mai ) in 1620. But while the Pèlerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pèlerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pèlerins was when they taught them to grow corn ( maïs ). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pèlerins.

In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pèlerins' crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more maïs was raised by the Pèlerins than Pèlerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges.

Every year on the Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration.

It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilomètres Deboutish) and a young, shy lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant:

"Go to the damsel Priscilla ( allez très vite chez Priscilla), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth ( la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth). Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of action ( un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe ), offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this, in short, is my meaning.

"I am a maker of war ( je suis un fabricant de la guerre ) and not a maker of phrases. You, bred as a scholar ( vous, qui êtes pain comme un étudiant ), can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of the maiden."

Although Jean was fit to be tied ( convenable à être emballé ), friendship prevailed over love and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow ( rendue muette par l'étonnement et las tristesse ).

At length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: "If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?" ( Où est-il, le vieux Kilomètres? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas auprès de moi pour tenter sa chance? )

Jean said that Kilomètres Deboutish was very busy and didn't have time for those things. He staggered on, telling what a wonderful husband Kilomètres would make. Finally Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, Jean?" ( Chacun à son goût. )

And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes and, for the only time during the year, eat better than the French do.

No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grande fête and no matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilomètres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.

**Art Buchwald. This column first appeared in the IHT many, many Thanksgivings ago. **
___________

 

 

 

__________________________________________________

"Right Wing Activists" - by D S

"Right Wing Activists"
by
D S

 

Last Wishes - by TPO

Last Wishes --------
by TPO

In Greece, there is a cliff on one side of Mt. Olympus, residence to the old mythical gods. It is said that the precipice of the cliff has a unique, magical power. It seems that whatever is the last word uttered before jumping off the cliff becomes a final dying wish and is granted immediately and abundantly.

One day, three friends made the brave trek to Olympus and approached the legendary cliff.

The first guy, who was also the bravest, screamed, "Money!!!"and jumped off the cliff. He kept screaming as he fell and landed on a huge mountain of money.

The second friend heard whoops of delight from down below and got very excited. He took a long running start, picked up speed and jumped off screaming, "BABES!!!!". He landed in the midst of a sea of countless, beautiful women.

Then, the third friend gets very worked up. He takes an even longer running start and runs as fast as he can. But he's so excited that he's only going 15 mph and running out of breath. When he comes to the edge of the cliff, he trips on a rock. As he is hurtling down, he panics and blurts out, "Oh shit!"

Pascagoula Revival - by TPO

Roger Miller (1936 - 1992)
---------
"Mississippi Squirrel Revival"

"Colbert Spoofs Pawlenty" (*) - by TPO

The Colbert Report
Tags: Colbert Report Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,Video Archive

___________________________________________________________
(*)source: Kaeti Hinck (MinnPost.com)

Sarisha Palin (a.k.a Abiola Abrams) - by TPO

Abiola Abrams (1976 - )
----------
This video was made right after the Vice-Presidential debates in 2008 by News One. It may be old, but it is still good and valid and hilarious!            

TPO a.k.a. J J Sefton Strikes Again!

Today, the article in MinnPost about Steele's "Fire Pelosi" bus enticed TPO (as J J Sefton) to respond ....

<< So, here's a scenario for you ...

Steele's "Fire Pelosi" bus is headed west, fast and furious, on a mission of salvation and revival. Simultaneously, another similar vehicle, the Tea Party's "Fire Steele" bus, is coming east with the pedal to the metal.

Somewhere on the turnpike in Missouri, the two buses go out of control, cross into the median, and careen into each other. Witnesses of this horrific collision later tell the media that they'd never seen anything like it before. But one particular witness, a grizzly veteran of WWII, said it reminded him of the Battle of Midway ... ships blowing up in great blaze of glory.

Fox News immediately assembled a team of conspiracy theorists and regular, steamed pundits to run a program tentatively titled: "Restoring Truth: What Really Happened To Our Buses?" >>

"The Barbara Bush Blues" - by Rohan Preston

Star Tribune Sunday, September 25 • 2005

The Barbara Bush Blues
--------------
By Rohan Preston | Star Tribune Staff Writer
"So many of the [displaced] people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this [chuckle], this is working very well for them." Barbara Bush, Houston, September 2005.

Poor people everywhere:
hope for disaster, displacement, flood,
pray for mudslides, earthquakes, wildfires —
for that's when the going really gets good!
Pray to be flushed out of your home — to watch it float away to rot; pray to end up in the Astrodome on a little Red Cross cot.
Away from the 'hood, you get nutritious food and free dental care; you get coupons to hoity-toity salons that can scrub the goo from your hair.
You get clean clothes, deodorant soap
and warm water to wash;
you get all this and most every wish —
plus a tidy bit of cash.
True, you may lose some of your little bums and your minimum-wage job, but these are just blips: after the apocalypse you live high on the hog.
So, clasp your hands and pray to join the
thousands living large and scot-free!
They've got such good gravy, forget First Lady - I wanna be an evacuee.
_______________________________________

Rohan Preston is at rpreston@startribune.com.

Wonder of Wonders - by Hénock Gugsa

Wonder of Wonders *
--------------
by Hénock Gugsa

 

Wonder of wonders, folks. I ran into Donald the other day at Lake Calhoun.

The "Duck" is well, by the way ... a bit exhausted from all that politicking he did recently in America's bounteous ponds. He's gained quite a bit of weight what with every one of his constituents pushing seeds, grasses, bugs, and little yummy snails in front of him all the time.

However, his run for the Presidency came to naught. We all knew that would be the outcome going in, but poor Donald of-course didn't. He told me that he is now totally cured of politics and plans to spend the rest of his duck days doing the things he is best at ... waddling, musing, and from time to time quacking just for the hell of it.

I asked Donald what he ponders about most.

He fluttered his wings once, and without missing a beat, said, "Why the American psyche of-course. What else?"

I said, "What do you mean, Donnie Boy? What about the American psyche?"

"Sheesh," he said, " You're the only one that calls me that! I ain't no damn Irish. I'm an American thru and thru. And I live and breathe America, don't you know that?"

I apologized and offered him a piece of aquatic delicacy to calm his nerves. Then, I pressed on with my interview of the great man, er duck.

He sat on his rump and stretched out his old legs and let them dangle in the water.

"I am worried about the American psyche," he began, "The recent financial debacle on Wall Street is sending tremors of fear and unease all thru the land."

I asked, "Do you think that Obama is up to the challenge?"

"Well, he seems to have a good team behind him. They'll be shovel-ready, don't worry."

"So what is worrying you?"

"My friend, it is them so-called experts that are messing with our heads, telling us this and that about where we are and where we are headed. What do they know? And some of them, they call themselves, 'financial advisers'. They mess with the American psyche telling us about the 'right' investment strategies. They talk about credit cycles and, get this, about solid data-driven financial analyses that will ensure success in our investment ventures. First, they assure us, then they caution us.It's enough to make your head spin."

I nodded in agreement, and he was emboldened to continue.

"I ask you, how much can the American psyche take? They tell you to access your brain, a new fangled way of telling you to think. These advisers guarantee that they are hard-wired to the raw data out there, but the prognostications depend on the behavior of us Americans. They say our future depends on our core values, yours and mine. True enough. But, what if our values-based behavior is affected by the fear factor emanating from the pit of our stomachs? Should we make decisions by proxy, or should we just adhere to the herd mentality? Should we hedge our funds, and should we continue being free to be greedy? And what about our x,y,z expectations? Should we not buy into the crisis of confidence in the market? Should we keep holding on to losing positions? And yet, thru all of this, the financial advisers fail to mention that they themselves have vested interests in the things they are pushing.They also neglect to tell you one very important detail: The system has no fail-safe mechanism."

"Whoa, this is all doom and gloom," I said with worry in my voice.

Donald thought for a moment before he replied. Then, with a glint in his eyes, he said, "Well, pal. We shouldn't let those dastards and fools sway us this way and that. We Americans know what is a useful activity and what is not.  Financial positions? pfftt! There are only three positions you can have with your money.You can spend it, you can save it, or you can invest it. Now, for spending you have checking accounts and credit cards. You can still save your money the old-fashioned way in a savings account. Your social security funds and pension plans (401Ks) can be considered savings ... but it is a stretch, I know. Then, you can invest in stocks and bonds. I heard one old geezer say that the best investment strategy these days is 'insured guaranteed bonds' or certificates of deposits."

"Wow, that is a lot to digest, Donald. But tell me what is your own investment strategy?"

A small quack escaped from his orange beak. But he managed to reply, "Easy. I invest in bird seeds. What else?!"
__________________________________________________________
* “Wonder of Wonders” ~ © Hénock Gugsa  (ሄኖክ  ጉግሣ ) - 03/29/2010
 [ Originally posted at politico.com  in April, 2009 ]

The Pachyderms’ Demise - by Hénock Gugsa

The Pachyderms' Demise *
------------------
by Hénock Gugsa


Thirty years! Has it been that long? Thirty long years! I’ve been gone ... and I've been hibernating for thirty years!  And now I’ve awoken, and I’m back down here visiting my cousin Sam. This neighborhood sure has changed a lot, and the humans that used to run it have undergone some kind of morphosis. It seems that, for some obscure reason, the Pachydermean party is now insanely committed to self-destruction. Their total downfall is without doubt imminent and irreversible.

Sam finds a lot to worry about, especially about his neighborhood. But it all suits him just fine. Always scowly and cantankerous, he has hardly changed at all except for a few new facial tics, mostly around his mouth.  His whiskers now have an unfamiliar jitter, and I find them quite disconcerting.

When I walked into his living room, Sam did not even bother to get up off his rocking chair and shake my paw. He merely nodded and said, “Hello, Rupert. Whatcha up to? Been drinking from a Van Winkle well, eh? You’ve outdone the old dutchman though, haven’t you?!”

But, this ribbing didn’t bother me too much. He was never very well-mannered anyways. And besides, all the folks down here act kind of crazy one way or another, not like us up north where the long winters have made us more temperate and considerate.

After a while, I was sitting by Sam’s side and chewing the fat with him. I asked how he was doing in the never-ending task of food-hoarding. He said that there was no problem there, Mother Nature has always been very generous. It was the humans that were worrying him. He said that he was deathly afraid of the pachyderms in particular. They are getting more and more rabid, he further proclaimed. Then, he began to give a detailed account of the state of things in Samlandia ....

Barely two weeks ago, Doug, the pachyderm who lived two blocks away, had shot and killed two of Sam’s friends, Peetie and Pearl. The reason – It seems Doug was upset when he found out they had made their domicile under the hood of his old Ford pickup truck. He flew into a rage at what he considered an unforgivable encroachment on his property. It did not matter that the old truck had been sitting in his driveway for the last three years … out of commission and just rusting away. But Sam knew the real cause for Doug’s psychotic episode.

Now, to be sure, my cousin Sam's home was on a sturdy, well-hidden tree limb a safe distance away from the aforementioned tragic site. But all the same, Sam had always been leery of Doug, and watched the old curmudgeon very closely but from afar.  He observed that Doug constantly listened to and watched the raving pachyderm lunatics on the radio and the television. Doug worshiped Annie C, Rush, Hannity, O'Reilly, and Savage.  

Strangely, the lies, the hate, and the anger that were being avidly received in Doug’s house were actually the norm in many households in the neighborhood. That may explain why the pachyderms, although recently dethroned, still have considerable clout in  Samlandia. They are peerless and tireless in distorting and denying truth and fairness. Their negativity knows no bounds, and they seem to always be in a huffy state of anger and disaffection. In short, they are a depressing lot.

What riles and intrigues Sam the most is that he cannot fathom the sense or motivating force behind the pachyderms’ behavior in all matters politique. How long can they subvert and circumvent long-term measures for the common good with obvious lies about laissez-faire, go-it-alone, individual rapaciousness? And yet, Sam observed, the pachyderms were never satisfied even when they were in power. And when they brag about their former leader, Ronaldo, they conveniently forget that he started a trend for reckless spending and military adventures. Fortunately, soon after that, the mordicant Guillermo ascended to power and straightened out all of that mess. But, that did not last long. Jorge, one of the worst pachyderms in Samlandia’s history, took over for the next eight years. He had this thing for compassion ... er, compassion for the rich and greedy, that is.  During his reign, everything that could go wrong did, and the pachyderms suddenly started burying their heads under the sand. They claimed everything was hunky-dory and whatever went wrong was Guillermo’s and the mordicants’ fault. And now at long last, the pachyderms have easily achieved the unimaginable … they have started to believe their own lies!

As Sam recounted all of this, my head was reeling with disbelief and despair. Although my home is Mooselandia, I have always had a lot of fondness for Samlandia. Also I have a lot of kinfolk down here. However, unlike Sam, most of them, I’m sad to say, are pachyderm cheerleaders. Too bad.  They must not have heard about Peetie and Pearl!

Zounds! I've had enough of this melancholia. So I quickly get up off the wicker chair and gather up my knapsack. “I’m going back to my beloved Mooselandia,” I declare with indignation in my voice. 

“I think you should come up north with me, Sam. You can make as good a living there if you want.  Civilized society up there for sure.”

“No, thanks,” says Sam. “I’m not giving these jerks that satisfaction. I’m gonna stick it out to the end! They’re gonna sink from their own weight soon, mark my words.  And, I'm sure glad they haven't yet taken a contract out on Samlandia like they did back in '94!” He winces and sighs undramatically.

Anon, he gets up off his chair and gives me a warm hug. No real surprise there. I’ve always known that, deep down, Sam was always a softie!  
______________________________________________________
 *"The Pachyderms’ Demise "  ~ © Hénock Gugsa  (ሄኖክ  ጉግሣ ) - 03/29/2010

 

National Census Blues - by Hénock Gugsa

National Census Blues
----------------
by Hénock Gugsa
Well, here we go again! It's time for the decadal absurdity known as the National Census. But, this year, somehow the irritation factor has become kind of a mixed bag. I don't know if I can really say there's been any improvements. The real improvement would be when they do away with it completely, or at least just stick to counting heads ... stop the ridiculous breakdowns (categorizations) and nonsensical probings!

HG: Hey, honey, this question here about race is one for the books ....  Choice #1 - Black, African American, Negro ... Choice #2- White ...  Choice #3- Hispanic ...[and that is broken down into three or four groups] ... etc.

JG: [chuckling].... Well, whatcha gonna do?

HG: ... and, wait, wait ... The last item on the list is "Other."  I think  I'll go with that. There is a blank space next to it where you can specify what you mean. I'll put down "Alien."

JG: Well, now. You better behave. We don't want them on our case now.

HG: Okay, then. I'll put down "Abyssinian." They can't do anything about that. Besides it's the truth.

JG: They'll think you're a cat.

HG: And is that such a bad thing, dear?!

Zack's Ordeal - by TPO

Zack's Ordeal  ( Land of the Profiled! )  ----------------- by TPO
[Note: The following is based on a true story. All names and locations have been altered to protect the innocent.]
 
Last Tuesday, I ran into Zack at one of my café hangouts downtown. He had just returned home to the United States after a two-week stay abroad visiting family and friends. Zack is originally from a North African country. But he has lived here in the States, his adopted country, for the last twenty-eight years. Without any reservation, the proudest day of his life was when he finally became a naturalized citizen fifteen years ago. But in one fell swoop, an organization named ICE has totally alienated this good man, and made him feel that he is nothing but just another tiresome second-class citizen.

Before his epiphany, Zack often bragged about his clean record as a citizen. Happily married and a devoted father to his two sons, Zack has always been a hard-working, law-abiding, and above all decent human being and citizen. Sadly, he has now become a cynical and bitter person who feels that his life and beliefs about this country were all pointless and meaningless. He told me that he feels he will never ever really be accepted or treated as an equal. His accomplishments and self-worth apparently mean little or nothing to ICE. Zack further expounded that while he respects ICE’s work and what they stand for, he was not altogether confident that their methods and practices are entirely sensitive to respecting the civil rights of citizens like him.

His experience with ICE had two parts.

Part one was the day of departure from XYZ International airport. He was asked to step aside and proceed into an interrogation and inspection room, ostensibly to check how much U.S. currency he was taking with him. It was barely $3,000, and under the limit one can take without declaring. While the agents were counting his money, they were also asking him if he was aware that any amount over $12,000 has to be declared. 

When they were finished counting the money, they asked him to pull all his pockets inside-out. That done, one of the agents began to ask where Zack worked and what type of work he did, etc.  He was puzzled by the questions, but he answered truthfully. The agent kept asking if it was a steady employment, and Zack still answered him patiently and without thinking anything of it.

Part two of Zack’s adventure was the day of his arrival at the same airport. He was confidently standing in the line for U.S. citizens and residents. In front of him stood a man of Indian or Pakistani descent.  And behind Zack stood a young couple, both Caucasians. 

Understandably, Zack can be mistaken for a Middle Eastern person. As he and his fellow passengers were standing there, an ICE agent made a beeline to the man in front of Zack, and asked two or three questions rapidly. Then, the agent turned to Zack, asked to see his passport and wanted to know from where he was coming. Zack replied that he had been visiting family and friends in Africa. The agent then asked him what type of work he did. Thinking that this was not a job interview and that it was none of the agent’s business how he made his living, Zack responded enigmatically, “IT professional.” At this, the agent raised an eyebrow and skeptically said, “Really?!” Zack stood his ground and replied, “Really.”

The agent then moved on to interrogate other (non-Caucasian) passengers. That there was profiling was evident, and Zack had expected it. What he had not expected was the blatant and complete disrespect for certain citizens’ rights and the idiocy of ICE’s procedures. After showing his document and answering this first agent, Zack had to do the same thing again three times with three other ICE agents.

Inevitable Conclusions: 

• With so many agents assisting (?!) few profiled citizens, one wonders if the tax payers’ money is indeed well-spent. Timothy McVeigh could have been standing behind Zack and no one would have bothered to interrogate the crazed sociopath only because he was Caucasian.

• Are certain citizens’ rights abused routinely? Can profiling be conducted without humiliating law-abiding citizens? 

• Incidentally, Zack got excellent treatment at London Heathrow airport by government officials there perhaps because they were more ethnically diverse unlike the ICE officials Zack encountered here. They were all Caucasians, and perhaps that was the problem!

• Is anybody at ICE giving any consideration to the possible, consequent creation of an alienated and resentful second-class citizenry?  Doesn't callousness breed more callousness?

• What recourse do these citizens have to get better treatment from government officials? Or should second-class citizenship be accepted as fait-accompli?

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December, 2008