 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant. Author's program note. Call me irresponsible... call me capricious... call me shiftless... call me devil-may-care... call me fickle... call me feckless... call me giddy. I don't care what you call me, but make sure I don't miss the next installment of the most captivating saga of the year, a saga replete with hapless presidents, clueless and uninformed prime ministers, lithe spies and ham-fisted spy-catchers who couldn't catch their beloved in flagrante delicto, even if they saw the bitter outrage with their own eyes. It's got exotic ports of call from the red Orient to the once red (now pink) lands of all the Russias... it's got more twists and turns than the greatest roller coaster on Earth. It's got a tintinabulum of bells going off in the grandest capitals on terra firma, Washington, D.C., Paris, London, Berlin... with breathless chancellors calling their opposite numbers worldwide; "Angela, darling, have you heard what Vlad just did to Barrack ...?" and of course Angela drops everything, and I do mean everything to find out. "No, really... I can't believe it! Do tell!" Thus these poobahs of exalted rank and tax-exempt perquisites, ensconce themselves in easy (albeit gilded) chair, box of Godiva at the ready, expectantly awaiting the dirty little secrets to follow. Delicious. And here's the best part: none of us is ever disappointed, because each new installment, each outrageous revelation is more enthralling than the last... which means each is more demeaning, disgusting, disappointing and degrading for the Great Republic and its flatfooted president, the Right Honorable Barrack, who celebrated his 52nd birthday just the other day by eating another plate of crow flambe', that delectable dish for which I surely hope he has developed a penchant, since he's eating so very much of it these days. Music to dine by. To ease Barrack's dog days and unsettled, restless nights I herewith leak the little ditty we know to be Vladimir Putin's favorite; the one he whistles daily in the opulent malachite shower once used by tsars, whose worthy successor he deems himself to be; a permanent imperial presence, not some quotidian official, here today, gone tomorrow. The tune is "My Blue Heaven". Go to any search engine now. Find the original version composed by Walter Dennison one afternoon in 1924 at the Friars Club in New York City, when he was waiting for his turn at the billiard table. George Whiting wrote the affecting lyrics.... and crooner Gene Austin threw his notable tantrum Austin, a man with a healthy opinion of his talents, told Victor Company which had him under contract, he was unhappy, needed better songs, and insisted that he get the chance to record "My Blue Heaven"... or else. The tantrum paid off... in 1927 Victor gave him the Victor Orchestra, including the famous "His master's voice" canine... and he then warbled the tune that sold over 5 million copies, one of the best-selling singles ever with 13 remunerative weeks at the top of the charts. "Just Molly and me, and baby is three/We're so happy in my blue heaven." It is said that Vlad renders his version with that special voice we all have for shower effusions; resonant, confident, "improved" by brilliant new emendations and astonishing contortions, ready for Carnegie Hall and a certain, certainly deserved position at the top of the pops, not merely a singer but a star... And that Mr. Putin most incontrovertibly is, if not in shower, then most assuredly in life... as the Honorable Barrack has come to know... and to rue. No wonder... for Putin (and his new BBF Edward Snowden) are eating his lunch, enjoying every morsel. Let me catch you up on this scintillating business which has otherwise good people worldwide wagging a nasty finger at each other, "tsk tsk" their mildest charge and imprecation. It all goes down hill, and rapidly so, thereafter. Before it descends still further, you need to get up to speed . I aim to give satisfaction.... Edward Snowden. Edward Snowden. Edward Snowden. Just weeks ago you had never heard the name Edward Snowden. You didn't know him. Didn't care. And certainly didn't have an opinion about him, be that positive or consigning him to the devil. All that changed because of Snowden's now universally known expertise as a master spy, perhaps the most influential ever; a nimble man, fleet of foot, lucky beyond luck, gifted with just the right friends in high places, and the ability to out run, out think and out maneuver battalions of NSA bozos who, despite every resource on Earth, have never laid a hand on him. No wonder Vladimir Putin, president of the Russian Federation, likes Eddie and wants him close at hand. Vlad, after all, is ex- KGB and he knows an admirable and useful colleague when he sees one. And, by goodness, he's seen one here! What Snowden did. Snowden, just 30, was an intelligence analyst wanted by the United States for leaking details of the National Security Agency's massive, and almost completely unknown, surveillance program. Snowden saw what was going on, unilaterally decided the country and the world needed to know what Big Brother was doing , and with the assistance of Britain's left-leaning newspaper "The Guardian" leaked the details which made all of us wonder why it took just 1 whistle blower to do the work a dozen congressional committees should have done; protecting us without giving the spooks unlimited power. My own 89- year-old father, a sensible midwesterner with solid conservative credentials, said that while he was glad to know, he wished we weren't beholden to Snowden and his thievery for the details. Exactly. But we were beholden to Snowden... and the lad didn't need to be told twice that the NSA wanted to have a little chat with him. Quick as boiled asparagus Snowden was off, a host of people glad to assist, including the anti-secrecy organization Wikileaks, the ever popular Red Chinese, and anyone ready, willing and able to take the US of A down a peg or two... which included Vlad, the cleverest rogue on Earth. Eddie, of course, was drawn to Vlad... and, finally, Vlad decided having Eddie was more important than his relationship with Barrack. And so he gave Eddie permission to stay in Russia for a year. Barrack, poor Barrack, unlucky in love, unlucky in everything, called Vlad and begged him to send Eddie home for a good spanking, nothing more. Vlad just kicked sand in his face. He knew how much the Great Republic wanted Eddie, and decided to humiliate lame- duck Barrack, who counts for less and less every day of his dwindling term and so gave him the back of his hand. He had Eddie (and access to all Eddie's secrets), he'd insulted the president, he was happy. Tomorrow could take care of itself. "Balm to the hearts of all Russians". Now what? Go to Moscow or St. Petersburg today and you find every true red Russian toasting Snowden, Eddie Snowden, the geek who has caused glee. This North Carolina born boy has people like Ivan Melnikov, a senior Communist Party member of the Russian Parliament calling him a hero. "Frankly speaking, he is like a balm to the hearts of all Russian patriots." Can you hear the "1812 Overture" in the background? I surely can, cannons and all. The Honorable Barrack, of course, is fuming, kicking the dog, growling at Michelle. More seriously, he's upped the ante, demonstrating an extreme case of adolescent petulance by cancelling his summit with Vlad. After all Eddie might be there, too, and that would never do. No one cares except Michelle who looks cute in fur and wanted a little something in ermine as a souvenir. As for Putin, he will tire of Eddie, as soon as Russia's agents milk him for all the details of what he did and how he did it. Putin, who loves only Mother Russia (but mostly himself), will kick Snowden out without a qualm, ensuring only that this road runner run anywhere but Russia. No one, however, dare breathe a word of this unhappy future. Today it's all Beluga caviar and the best vodka, served in glasses that once brightened a grand duke's table. Vlad is happy. Eddie's ecstatic about all his new friends. Every Russian Communist is happy. Barrack is humiliated, miserable, out classed, a bumbling factotum capable only of missteps and muddle. Tomorrow will come... but today is a joy thanks to one traitor named Snowden. After all, he knows "what makes the world go round, nothing but love." |
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