Phil's Thinking

Rex the Rescue Dog is in New Orleans now as FEMA chief Michael Brown keeps licking his own.

It is well understood by biblical scholars that Jesus, while giving his sermon on the mount, made implicit calls for the assassination of King Herod.

"Blessed are the meek," Jesus said, "For they shall inherit the earth. And if they can slit Herod's throat in a meek and mild way, they shall also inherit parts of Sumaria."

So why the outrage when Reverend Pat Robertson calls for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez? It is not un-Christian to kill; in fact, Jesus, when not imploring some to seek the kingdom of heaven, encouraged his followers to blow things up to kingdom come.

In Matthew 2:17, Jesus tells his flock, "He who is without sin shall cast the first stone." (pause) "Okay, let me go first."

Pat Robertson's exhortation for the murder of nasty despots is supported by the Gospels. In fact, in the Book of Luke alone, Jesus's assassination squads are responsible for over sixteen-hundred deaths, including Gamaliel the Ass Trainer and Joshua the Incontinent.

In seeking the murder of dictators, Reverend Robertson is no more out of line than the well-respected Jerry Falwell, who once urged his followers to "decapitate and disembowel David Sidaris." Nor is he any more radical than the now-retiring Billy Graham who told confidants in the fall of 1963 "to keep well hidden behind the grassy knoll."

One might argue that Robertson, who claims that God speaks to him through soap bubbles, is being remarkably restrained. There are nearly two-hundred world leaders who vex him, including French President Chirac and Pope Benedict XVI, yet he chooses only to single out Chavez.

Compare him to a Muslim leader like the radical Imam Mohammed Abdullah-Boolah Boolah, who only last year called for the murder of "all infidels named Dirk," and Robertson's indiscretion seems to be minor at best.

Jesus, betrayed by Judas in the Garden of Gethsemane, turned to his beloved apostle and screamed "You're a dead man, Judas. You hear me? A dead man!"

And so is Chavez. 700 Club, be not faint of heart.

Sup? I guess “Wassup?” took too long to say.

Now I consider myself au courant and hep to the jive. I know Eminem isn’t a candy snack that comes in plain or peanut, and I know he makes a whole lot of bling bling. But I have to draw a line somewhere in the grammatical Gulf of Sidra. I’m a writer, dammit!

I love words. Always have. When I was eight years old, I read that assassin comes to us from the word hashish, and that those who smoked it are hashishans. I thought that was neat. I had no idea what hashish was. Ten years later, I did find out what it is on my first trip to Europe. And I still find the word fascinating.

Words are the writer’s currency. Sup, diss, and other non-words of this post-literate era devalue my stock. I’m not impressed by five-dollar words, but I am depressed by the 100-lira note of “rap-isms.” They cheapen us as a culture. And worse, they cheapen the speaker.

Now before I’m accused of blatant anti-ebonics behavior, please understand that this has nothing to do with the ethnic cleansing of my mother tongue. I’m a bleeding-aorta liberal. I pull for the underdog and the underprivileged.

My lament is not race-based. But if we are truly serious about perpetuating the myth of “leaving no child behind,” a disingenuous fairy tale told by a President who was fearful of Saddam’s “noocular” capabilities, then let’s give our kids the tools to almost succeed. And language is a great start.

Language is thought. Try to think about something without attaching words to it. It’s hard to do. Even when having great sex. The quality of thought depends on the quality of language.

To illustrate my point, I’d like to compare the works of two well-regarded contemporary poets: Maya Angelou and Notorious B.I.G.

First, Angelou:

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

Now, B.I.G.:

First things first, I poppa, freaks all the honeys
Dummies - playboy bunnies, those wantin' money
Those the ones I like 'cause they don't get nathan'
But penetration, unless it smells like sanitation

Okay, call me a snob, a stick-in the-mud, but I gotta go with Grand Masta Maya here. I understand all her words. I know what trill and hill mean. I have no idea what ‘nathan’ is. Nathan’s Famous hot dogs? Nathan Lane?

The degradation of American culture may be bemoaned by the literati (5-dollars, please!), but it is celebrated and encouraged by all our Estates. When I took a news-writing course at Syracuse University, I was taught to “write down to the level of a twelve-year old.” Watch any network news broadcast. The well-placed polysyllabic word is rarely uttered. What an insult to our collective intelligence. We’re all being dissed.

The anti-intellectual bent of this country is downright scary. Turn on the TV. Springer. Elimidate. WWE Smackdown! The The Comeback. Mass media, the greatest conveyor of thoughts and ideas, is leading us down the path of unfettered mediocrity. And if we’re honest with ourselves, the way back to civility and high-mindedness is almost impossible.

In national politics, this fear, nay loathing, of smarts is rampant. If John Kerry had been a bit dumber, had had a looser grasp on concepts and policies, he might be calling the shots right now. The re-election of “Dubya” was no surprise. He spoke to the average American in a language all his own, a kind of Tex-rap whose rhythms come not from street experience, but from a cheerful, goofy disdain of the King’s English. His down-home folksiness and malapropisms appealed to a broad base of Americans who are suspicious of Harvard, sushi, and Queer Eye.

But bemoaning our collective fate will not solve anything. Until we as a nation begin to celebrate and reward achievement, until we commit the resources necessary to educate our children, we are in for a grim, albeit hip-hoppity, future. Sup?

Mr. President, as you continue to spend tens of billions of our tax dollars on your war in Iraq, you’re leaving our future PHD’s in the dust. Ignorance is as evil as anthrax. And this time the hashishans of complacency and lip-service will win.

And as for you kids who put the “duh” back in Reading is Fun-da-mental, here’s my advice:

Perspire to B.I.G. Aspire to Angelou.

A Kurd, a Shi'ite and a Sunni walk into a bar.

And it blows up.

What's the difference between Iraq and George W. Bush?

The Iraqis don't have a draft for a constitution.
Bush doesn't have the constitution for a draft.

U.S. Ambassador to Iraq Zalmay Khalilzad, sat in front of the class, listening patiently as Iraqi national security adviser Mowafak al-Rubaie pleaded for more time to finish the first draft of the Iraqi Constitution.

“We know it was due today, Mr. Ambassador,” Al-Rubaie intoned, his sullen eyes looking at the floor, “But last week was Ramadan and we aren’t allowed to work during this most holy of weeks.”

Al-Rubaie looked back at his classmates for support. Nothing.

Khalilzad, wearing a bemused smile, stood up and approached his favorite student. “Mowafak… Mow…I’m a Muslim too you know. Ramadan is two months away. Now I’m sure you can come up with a better excuse than that.”

Iraqi Prime Minister Ibrahim al-Jaafari, jumped out of his chair. “Mr. Khalilzad, we finished the constitution late last night, but when we started to print, the ink cartridge ran out. It’s the Sunnis’ fault. They were put in charge of the printer!"

“Maybe this will help,” said Khalilzad as he opened his desk drawer and walked over to Al-Jaafari. “Here you go, Ibby, a brand new cartridge for your Epson printer. I expect the constitution in an hour.”

Turning on his heels, the Ambassador walked towards the door. A shout from the back of the class stopped him in his tracks.

“Mr. Khalilzad! Mr. Khalilzad!” It was none other than self-appointed ”class clown” Kurdish leader Jalal Talibani. “We have the constitution, but my dog ate it.”

Nervous giggles trickled through the room. Talibani continued. “Unfortunately, my dog was kidnapped early this morning by insurgents who are now threatening to behead him! If we can rescue him, we can wait until he poops and then pull the document out of his butt. Isn’t that how the Bush administration does it?”

“That’s enough, Tali,” Khalilzad barked. “Forming a democracy is no laughing matter. It may seem like a joke to most people, but it’s not. We’ve blown up thousands and thousands of your countrymen because we want you to be free, whether you like it or not. You have six hours to get me that constitution.”

The Ambassador slammed the door as he left.

“Tali, you jerk!” cried Al-Rubaie. “Now Mr. Khalilzad is mad at all of us. And even if we get him the stupid constitution, there’s no way he’s gonna give us anything better than a B-plus.”

“Oh, lay off Ruby,” replied Talibani, “Let’s just plagiarize the U.S. constitution and go home. This class is boring.”

Al-Jaafari nodded. “Good idea. Do you think we ought to include a Bill of Rights too?”

The classroom exploded in laughter. Even Al-Jaafari laughed.