Decisions must be made...

Within the political arena, there is any number of incredibly complex issues. Some of them boggle the mind. I mean, really—how is America supposed to respond to North Korea sinking a South Korean ship? It’s North Korea, for crying out loud. Once you eliminate the only feasible answer (nuke them) as not-so feasible, it gets really messy really quick. The North Korean army subsists on a diet of water and pain, and you do not want to brawl those kinds of people when they live halfway across the world.

Health care is no easy fix, either. Health care is broken because the government, Medicare, Medicaid, and lots of really expensive (lifesaving) technology and research broke it—but what do we do with all those people whose very lives depend on subsidized American health care? People who’ve been told their entire lives to expect it? It’s not like we can get an LBJ-do-over. It’s here, and we can’t afford it. We can’t afford it more each day. That’s complex.

I for one think we should at least fix the things we can fix, until someone really smart figures out the complex stuff. Unfortunately, that really smart person is apparently not yet alive, but in the meantime we can just keep selling T-bills to the Chinese. I don’t know what they do with all that paper, but they sure seem to love it. Uh-oh. I just stumbled into another complex issue.

But, let’s say we were interested in solving some of the less complex issues. It would still take a razor sharp mind and keen understanding of the issues. In thinking this idea through, I decided to enlist the aid of my four-year-old nephews, Ben and Henry. We gathered for an afternoon think-tank, and spent dozens of minutes arriving at the solutions.

First, the very complex issue of “immigration reform.” Henry, what would you do if you were trying to keep Ben from coming into your room and playing with your toys? Did you say, “Close the door?”

The mile-deep oil spill. Ben, if there was a shiny quarter lying on the ground across an eight-lane highway, and one right there in your yard, which one would your Dad encourage you to pick up?

The current federal deficit of $13 trillion dollars. Henry, if you were to eat so many cookies you thought you might puke, what could you do stop the problem? What’s that? Stop eating cookies? Smart boy.

Job creation. Ben, if your Mom wants you to clean up your room, does she a) make you pay her for the privilege of doing so? b) encourage you to clean up by offering a popsicle when you’re done?

Air travel security. You’re parents tell you a red-haired boy has been seen breaking into neighborhood homes. Do you a) Alert your parents if you see a boy with red hair in the yard? b) Alert your parents every time a man, woman, or child so much as drives by the house?

Education. If you got to choose between a school with really great teachers and one with really awesome playgrounds, which would you choose? Really? Okay, well, I’m just going to have to be the adult here and decide for you.

The Bill of Rights. Okay, listen carefully: You both know the rules of Simon Says. The big questions is, “Do the rules apply to you, even if you don’t want them to?” That’s correct—they do, unless you want to quit and move somewhere with different rules. Good answer.

Bailouts and Stimulus Packages. Ben, if you whack Henry in the head with your Nerf bat and make him cry, what happens? What would you think if, instead of a timeout, your parents rewarded you with a cupcake and a trip to Chucky Cheese?

Lobbyists. Do you lads sometimes disagree about what your Mom should cook for dinner? Do you think the one who proposes the healthiest meal should get their way? Or the one who’s saved up the most money to give to Mom, even if the menu he wants is Cheez-Whiz and beer?

Iraq and Afghanistan. What’s the rule about cleaning up a mess you make, even if you were trying to do something nice like make your Mom a birthday card?

The thing I find most amazing about my think-tank exercise with my nephews is that apparently no one in Washington has access to such bright young fellows. George Bush failed—and Barack Obama is failing—to come within a thousand miles of these self-evident solutions. Worse yet, the House and then Senate are blind as well. How can this be?

I pressed Ben and Henry for their ideas on why this governmental degenerative disorder exists, and they recommended we put the entire lot of them in a corner and let them think about it. Brilliant.

I hereby propose the President and Congress be put in a corner for the next Congressional term: No free dinners, no free booze, no flirtatious interns, no “fact finding” junkets, no free golf, no free air travel, no public speaking endorphins, no congressional healthcare, no federal exemptions from federal regulations, no pension deposits, no special parking, and no TV interviews. For the next two years, they get to be working Americans like the rest of us. After two years, we’ll see what they’ve learned—and if enough problems are solved, we’ll allow them back to the trough.

I bet they balance the budget in six weeks.

Video Post

As a political commentator, I'm always humbled when I encounter real genius. Here's a six minute video commentary on the mosque that's slated to be built by Ground Zero, offered by a cat named Pat Condell. He is a genius.

Cut & Paste: http://www.jihadwatch.org/2010/06/pat-condell-on-ground-zero-mosque-is-it-possible-to-be-astonished-but-not-surprised.html

The Greene Party?

I cannot stop laughing.

Alvin Greene, an unemployed young man who lives in Manning with his parents, is the Democratic candidate chosen to face Senator Jim DeMint for the United States Senate. Mr. Greene not only beat Vic Rawle, he crushed him.
Alvin Greene didn’t so much as print a bumper sticker or yard sign. He didn’t attend any Democratic events. He ran no television or radio. He ran against political veteran Vic Rawle, who worked hard to win, doing all of the things usually required—fundraising, speeches, printed literature, you name it.
And yet, Greene won with 59% of the vote. That’s a mandate level margin.

The Democrats and the laughably liberal media are going insane.

The Washington Post wrote the most condescending, racist piece of journalism published in 40 years, in which they quoted Greene literally—court-reporter style. Sure, they clean up the language of Congressmen they like, but not poor Alvin Greene. They make him out to be a complete moron. Is he? Perhaps, but he’s also the Democrat’s choice for the US Senate.

Jim Clyburn, as you probably know, is calling for an investigation of Greene’s candidacy. He believes Greene was put up by some shadowy figure for nefarious reasons. He and the Democratic leadership within the state are calling for Mr. Greene to step out of the race, stating that he’s not qualified.

Qualified? Qualified? What exactly are the qualifications needed to serve in Congress, a parliament of whores, thieves, nitwits, trust-fund babies, pathological liars, and boot lickers? I can think of no job in the entire nation that requires less qualifications. Not one. I was a cashier at a fast food restaurant a few years ago, and in that role at least I had to be honest. Amongst politicians it’s considered reasonable to argue over what the definition of “is” is.

Oh, and Mr. Clyburn? What exactly were Barack Obama’s qualifications to be President?

The national media is baffled about how this happened, but it’s actually quite simple. Native South Carolinians (and Jim Clyburn) already know the answer, but—shudder, it has to do with race, and apparently we’re no longer allowed to act as if race even exists. So here you go: Alvin Greene spells his last name with an “e” on the end. In South Carolina, that’s how African Americans spell the name Greene—with an “e.” Everyone knows it. And when African American voters entered the voting booth, they could tell from the names that a black man was running against a white man. So they voted for the black man. Period.

I’ve seen two video interviews with Alvin Greene thus far, and he strikes me as a perfectly likable guy. He’s definitely got the deer-in-the-headlights thing going on, but why shouldn’t he— a couple weeks ago he’d never spoken to a reporter in his life. Does he strike me as smart? No, but 99.9% of elected officials don’t strike me as smart, either. And unlike most members of Congress, Mr. Greene doesn’t strike me as a mean-spirited narcissist, either.

Consider this: When Sarah Palin arrived on the scene, average Republican voters got fired up and reengaged—here was a gal who is “one of us.” A married, Christian, blue-collar gal, more passionate than intellectual. She says what’s on her mind, and many of us fell in love with her. To some degree, the same thing occurred with Joe the Plumber. Who says Alvin Greene doesn’t (or won’t) appeal to Democrats in the same way?

Our “elected class” and our media, that’s who. Greene’s not good enough! He’s not polished! He’s nervous in interviews! He didn’t run around sucking up and selling favors in exchange for campaign contributions! He’s even got a pending “obscenity” charge against him.

Really? Like, uh, Bill Clinton had? But instead of “obscenity,” wasn’t it adultery? In the Oval Office? And don’t I recall every Democrat in America shouting that “one’s private life is private, and has no bearing on public service?”

Personally, I kind of doubt Alvin Greene came up with the $10,000 needed to file to run. I think someone gave him the dough. But at the end of the day, the voters spoke. No matter what smoking guns are uncovered by Jim Clyburn’s investigation, the fact remains that 100,000 South Carolina voters gave him the nod. There was no scandal there—the votes were legitimate. Yes, I think we had a bunch of black folks saying they’d rather have a black man than a white man, but the last time I checked that’s allowed in America.

There is something good that can come out of this: Democrats across the nation can once again get a crystal-clear look at their party, and see—again—how elitist their leaders are. How Jim Clyburn and Barack Obama are acceptable blacks, but Alvin Greene isn’t. How black voters are good, but only if they stay in line and do what’s expected.

My guess is that Alvin Greene’s life will be more-or-less destroyed by this. The political elites will crucify and embarrass him to the point that, even if they never uncover a conspiracy, he will drop out just to make it all stop. Yet another American citizen will be crushed by those who rule us.

I said at the beginning that I can’t stop laughing, but I’m not laughing at Alvin Greene. I’m not laughing at the voters who elected him. I’m laughing at the media and the politicians who are outraged that an African American was elected without their permission.

The Will to Win Wars

Somewhere in the Berzerkistan Province of Iraq, an awards ceremony is taking place:

General: Well, Captain, what did you do?

Captain: I’m a fighter pilot, General. I dropped flaming gasoline on a group of men.

General: Hmm, they looked suspicious, eh?

Captain: Roger that, General.

General: Very good. You get, uh, these three ribbons, and… this medal.

General’s Aide: Next!

Sergeant: General, I engaged in house-to-house fighting, and when I ran out of ammo I commenced to bashin’ heads in with my shovel. By the time the battle was done, I was down to gouging out the eyes of the enemy using my MRE spoon.

General: Nicely done, Sergeant. You’re a killer, and a man for the enemy to fear. You get you get two ribbons, a badge, and this medal.

General’s Aide: Next!

General: Ah! A young lady! What did you do?

Private: Sir, I made a guy wear my underwear on his head. Oh, and one time I watched while another MP had a dog bark really loud at a prisoner. Want to see the pictures?

General: Are you kidding me? Absolutely! That is so freakin’—

General’s Aide: Pssst. There’s a reporter watching, Sir.

General: …so… so freakin’ bad! Bad Private. No ribbons. You go to jail.

General’s Aide: Next!

Lieutenant: General, my platoon was ambushed, and we wiped out the enemy.

General: Well done, Lieutenant. Four ribbons, and medal.

General’s Aide: Next!

Staff-Sergeant: General, my squad was ambushed, and we wiped out the enemy.

General: Well, that’s the sort of thing—

General’s Aide: Sir, there’s a reporter here from the New York Times, and he says he talked to one of the enemy and the enemy says that the Staff Sergeant wiped them out.

General: Yes, well, uh, isn’t that the point?

General’s Aide: The enemy says they didn’t deserve it.

General: And?

General’s Aide: And the reporter is from the N-e-w Y-o-r-k T-i-m-e-s.

General: As I was saying, Staff Sergeant, that’s the sort of thing that results in murder charges. You go to jail.

Staff-Sergeant: Murder? In a combat zone? In a fire fight?

General: Get a photographer over here. I’m ready to do my concerned and disappointed look.


Somewhere in Charleston, a former Marine boils:

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is time for a brief, educational break: War is what our military does, and as is the case with all war-making units, they hurt people, and break things. The hurting and the breaking continues until the other side is so broken and so hurt they’ll do anything to make it stop, even listen to American politicians tell them what to do. Sometimes achieving this is very hard, because listening to American politicians is an awful fate indeed: Clear thinking folks that the Japanese are, they resisted long and hard. Finally, we had to nuke a couple of civilian cities.

But, that’s the way it goes. The man in charge of the mission made the call, and the atom bombs flew. FYI, here is the total number of people who went to jail for nuking two civilian cities: Zero. Here’s the total number of guards who went to jail for teasing Japanese POWs: Zero.

But… times have changed. America today is a kinder, gentler America than back in the 1940’s. These days, the press has virtually unlimited access to our wars, and those brave war correspondents have kept us on that path of kindness and gentleness. Only once have we strayed from this new recipe: During Gulf I in 1990, the military put all the reporters in a room and spoke to them only during daily briefings. In unrelated news, Gulf I is also the only war we’ve actually won since WWII.

So, how did we reach this point? When did we as a nation begin accepting the second hand testimony of the enemy as a reason to charge our military men with murder? When did we sink so low as to make a public spectacle of a little girl named Lindy England?

It began the day John F. Kennedy took two for the team. In covering JFK’s funeral, the American media discovered that they could not only report the news, they could shape the way we feel about the news. I have painstakingly charted the media’s emotionalizing of stories, and found that when that chart intersected the chart tracking politicians who govern by poles, the result was, uh, America today.

The formula is now thus:

Politician- This Abu Ghraib thingee is problematic. The networks are screaming bloody murder. What do the polls say?

Handler- Well, the CNN poll says the American public is outraged. The MSNBC poll says the American public demands action. ABC, CBS, and NBC all report that America’s standing as the world’s moral compass has been shattered.

Politician- How about Fox? What do their polls say?

Handler- Their polls indicate the American people think it’s kinda cool, so they’re launching a bumper sticker slogan contest.

Politician- Well, how do I play it?

Handler- It’s a tough call, Big Guy. Those are our soldiers, and it’s their lives were discussing here. We need more facts.

Politician- Ha! Good one! You can always make me laugh when I’m down!

Handler- Just go with the polls, Boss. Demand an investigation, sound angry, and throw the military under the bus. The press loves that indignant routine.



Somewhere in Charleston, a former Marine asks some questions:

Should we, America, ever go to war again? Do we have the will to inflict the violence necessary to utterly break another people, like Sherman broke the South? Is there any cause so great that the press would agree not to publish information about secret missions before they happen? Is it possible in today’s world of live-feed news and Twitter to allow the commanders on the ground the do their jobs? Can we forgive our troops when they lose control and wreak havoc on bystanders? If the answers are what I think they are, should we become isolationists?

Food for thought--

Can America Defy the Laws of Math?

If you are a thinking person, you’ve been feeling the stress of cognitive dissonance regarding America’s economy. Even with no training in economics, you know something is very, very wrong. Perhaps you can’t quite lay your finger on it, but you know there’s a bad moon rising, and something’s got to give.

Thus far, you’ve likely rationalized that gut feeling away, and you’ve accomplished this by listening to dozens of experts give dozens of conflicting opinions, and it all swirls together into one big lump of economic-theory nonsense. In the end, you assume “the best and the brightest” are working on the issue, and the problem will ultimately get solved.

It won’t.

The best and the brightest aren’t working on the problem—life-long politicians and bureaucrats are. The people in charge of getting us out of this meltdown are the same people who got us into it. There’s no brilliant guy in the background offering sage advice. In fact, no one in charge has any idea whatsoever what they are doing. No one. But the emperor isn’t the only one who has no clothes—his advisors are naked, too.

If you will take the time to research the decisions made by the President and Congress during the past two years, you will quickly come to the conclusion that America of 2010 is unrecognizable to the America of 2007. Can you even keep track of what’s been nationalized, subsidized, and socialized? Wall Street, Banking, Insurance, the Auto Industry, now Hedge Funds—what’s next? Airlines? Credit Card Companies? Newspapers? Pandora’s Box is open, and the folks in charge seem unwilling to close it, no matter the cost.

Ah, the cost. It’s another area where you’ve been experiencing cognitive dissonance, because you keep wondering how the taxpayer is going to pay down this debt. How can we pay off hundreds of billions of dollars? Well, we could if that was all it was… but there’s more. A lot more: As reported on Bloomberg, the Federal Reserve pledged to create, out of thin air, 7.4 Trillion dollars to bail out the economy. It is one of the biggest financial stories in the history of the world, and… well, did you even know about it? As an added nugget of intrigue, the Fed has stated they won’t reveal who gets that money, or what the Fed gets in return. That’s 7.4 Trillion of your dollars being spent in secret. True to their word, in 2009 the Fed recently placed the initial two trillion, and they aren’t saying where it went.

Question: How can a government in as much debt as ours come up with 7.4 Trillion dollars? Answer: They own the printing presses.

Yes, they will try to “borrow” (and thus “create”) the 7.4 Trillion by selling Treasury Bonds, but it appears that the world is, well, kinda tired of American dollars. They have enough, thanks—and they’re starting to wonder if those dollars are actually worth what they paid for them. Hell, if China owned anymore T-Bills, they would need to invade Taiwan—if for no other reason than a place to store all the paper.

Now, if common sense (and sanity) prevents the rest of the world from buying 7.4 Trillion dollars in T-Bills, plus the 1 Trillion-plus Congress has spent on bailouts, how do we explain where all this paper money is coming from?

Look! Over there! It’s Bigfoot!

That’s right, we can’t. When we run out ways to legitimately “create” money we will simply resort to printing money. And when we begin blatantly and publicly ignoring the very basic laws of economics, China and Japan and Europe and India are going to look at their mountain of T-Bills and say, “These have got to go.”

And then? Game over. The ensuing “run on the dollar” will cause it to collapse, and our consumer economy will fall into a depression. This is a mathematical certainty.

President Bush handled the economic crisis like a moron. President Obama has simply done more of the same, as his “big idea” is to spend a Trillion dollars hiring a few million folks to dig holes, and an equal number to fill them back in. If you’re following the math, that now brings us to 9.4 trillion dollars of “bailout” money. 9.4 Trillion dollars that didn’t exist on the planet earth even six months ago. And that doesn’t even include the budget deficits the White House has seen fit to propose.

Do I have a solution? You bet: What would happen to our economy if the government announced, “We are eliminating all income tax and capitol gains tax until we’ve reached the point of 9.4 trillion in lost tax revenue”? If you guessed the recession would soon be over, step up and collect your prize!

But why won’t they do this? It makes so much sense, right? Instead of taking money out of the economy and inefficiently funneling it back in, just leave it with the American people. We’d then have the money to get our credit cards and cars paid-off, buy a flat-screen, and maybe even have enough available salary to make those pesky mortgage payments. Right?

Wrong. Tax revenues equal money, and money equals power, and you’ll die of old age waiting for a politician to give up power. It is their drug. It is their sex. It is their god.

Prior to discovering Peter Schiff’s website (www.europac.net) and then beginning to research the economy myself, I assumed our leaders would work the situation out. This is America, after all. We’re the greatest nation on the earth. What I now believe is that the foxes are in charge of the henhouse, and foxes eat chickens. It is their nature. And they will continue to eat the chickens until the chickens are gone, even if it means they starve to death later.

So what should you do? First, do your own research. Decide for yourself what you think will happen. If you think nothing is going to happen, then you don’t need to do a thing. But if you think something bad might happen—something life-changing like hyperinflation—then it only stands to reason you should get prepared.

Is it urgent? I cannot say. But consider this: All of America went home for the weekend on a Friday, and Lehman Brothers was a AA-rated investment bank. When business began on Monday, Lehman no longer existed.

Humans are the only species that ignores gut instinct. What is your gut telling you?

Advice for College Freshmen

This fall, both my nephew and my godson will be entering the freshman class of Clemson University. If their college experience is like most folks’, those four years will launch them out into the world at the very peak of their intelligence. I mean, was there ever a time in your life when you were smarter than your first year out of college? From literature to economics to politics to leadership, I was the 1985 human-version of Google.

But entering college? Well, that was a bit different. I was entering a new and mysterious world, and the only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t know squat. And that’s not easy for any high school senior to admit.

So, I’m going to do these lads a favor, and offer them some sage advice—right here, right now. If you’ve got a youngster climbing out of the trenches and assaulting that collegiate machinegun nest, feel free to share it with them as well.

Will and Alton, here you go:

First, the seniors at college will look like grown men—wise and experienced veterans, capable of dispensing important insights on life. They aren’t. If you have a question more important than which Zippy Marts accept fake ID’s, call your Dad.

Speaking of fake ID’s, avoid bars. They are expensive, illegal for anyone under 21, and tend to attract guys who want to fight (and girls who want to be fought over). Push, shove, swing—there goes your scholarship. That’s a call to your Dad you don’t want to take.

In planning for Fall semester, sign up for later classes—it’s cold at 8am. In the Spring, sign up for early classes—when it warms up, you’ll want to be outside.

In high school, you attended classes and played sports from about 8am until 3 or 4pm. If you can force yourself to maintain that schedule, and view college as a “job” from 8am to 4pm, you’ll crush it. You’ll be amazed when other people flunk out.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, good happens after midnight. After 1am, the police start getting involved. After 2am, it’s the ER. Regardless of your classmates’ preferred schedules, have your fun earlier, and be counting sheep when the cops start pulling out the tazers and pepper spray. If you must stay out late, use this rule of thumb: When the clock strikes midnight, think about what you want to do, then do the opposite.

Speaking of cops, there will be times in the next four years when you will feel called to “reason” with them. Perhaps in your own defense, or for a friend who’s crossed the line. This is a mistake. Cops are not reasonable people after 6pm. Until you are 40, the only words you should ever say to a cop are, “Yes, Sir,” and “No, Sir,” and “I’m happy to comply, Officer.”

Along those same lines, college professors are fairly predictable, too. In all liberal arts classes, sit in the front row, nod a lot, ask questions, and—this is key—whenever you are answering a short answer or essay question, be a human parrot. When writing your answer, focus on the question, “What does the guy grading my test want to hear?” As an added benefit, this will be good training should you choose to pursue a career in corporate America.

I’d also encourage you to avoid taking advantage of the fact that most college profs don’t care if you come to class. The only reason for missing a class is if an ER physician is standing over you, holding paddles and yelling ”Clear!”

The most tireless, obsessed, mean-spirited humans on the planet are not radical terrorists—they are meter maids on college campuses. You have been warned.

Make sure your iPod has Andrea Bocelli’s Romanza on it. The chicks will think you are cool and mysterious. If you can stand it, have some jazz, too.

If Clemson has a foreign language requirement, remember that the vocabulary words you learn are considered fair game in later semesters. Don’t kill the brain cells containing those words.

At Auburn, where I went to college, riding a bicycle was considered “driving.” You might want to check on the local laws at Clemson. Just saying.

Sitting around with friends at the library, laughing, texting, or flirting with girls doesn’t qualify as studying. Sure, that may seem obvious—but you’re about to encounter thousands of people who can’t grasp that concept.

You will meet a lot of kids who do recreational drugs. I implore you, don’t go down that road. Make your own decisions regarding beer, but draw a line in the sand with drugs—and seek a reputation as someone who thinks drug users are geeks. You’d also be wise to avoid “trying dip”: I did not, and 25 years later I’m still a nicotine addict.

You will also meet a lot of kids who bet on football. To that, let me say this: Gambling is the surest way to lose everything. Think about it: If Tiger Woods tried to blow all his money on drugs, alcohol, and partying, he couldn’t—because he’d be dead before the money ran out. But gambling? He could lose it all in a week. He could lose it all, plus enough more to have a bookie break his legs. Think about it before you get a taste of the “easy money” that comes with a few innocent bets.

If you want to join a frat, don’t join one that hazes pledges. While the Marine Corps might haze recruits on their way to becoming Marines, it’s necessary. A frat is a beer drinking club—and hardly worthy of demanding some sort of trial by fire. Along those same lines, if you join the Marines, feel free to get a tattoo. Fraternity tattoos, however, are just sad.

You’re also going to encounter lots of kids from different economic backgrounds—there will be rich kids with their parent’s credit cards, and there will be kids who are working their way through school without a dime from their folks. Don’t be quick to judge either—you’ll meet good people in both categories. Just don’t try to run with the rich kids, because their parents’ credit cards aren’t yours. Along that same vein, don’t pressure your less fortunate friends to do stuff that costs money, unless you’re going to pick up the tab.

Remind yourself how blessed you are: Put an index card on your mirror that says, “Today, someone my age, who couldn’t afford college, may die serving America in Afghanistan or Iraq.”

At this point in your life, you have no idea what’s at stake—but it’s a lot. The choices you make in college will impact the rest of your life. You won’t believe how quickly the “real world” will pigeon-hole you into the career you choose, which will likely be based on your major. If you sleepwalk thru college, the world doesn’t mind… in fact, the world doesn’t even care. That’s because while the world needs engineers, businessmen, marketers, teachers, warriors, doctors, and nurses, it also needs ditch diggers. Lots and lots of ditch diggers.

This is your one four-year window to explore the buffet of professions. Talk to peers, adult professionals, professors, and ditch diggers to see what their lives are like, and find a passion to pursue. College won’t go by fast, but it will go by—and when you pop out on the other side, the world will only be your oyster if you know where oysters grow, have a boat to find them, have the tools to harvest them, and have the know-how to crack one open. Remember this: The world and technology have changed more during your 12 years in school than it changed in the previous 1,000 years. The job where you’ll spend your career might not even exist yet. No old dudes like me can help you with this—I come from a generation that could never figure out how to stop the 12:00 on the VCR from blinking. You and you alone need to survey the ice, and skate to where the puck is going to be.

Oh, and go to church. Believe it or not, God goes with you to college.

Considering torture

It all seemed so impossible—the explosion, the gunfire, the shouts. It was an operation that defied logic. No one could explain it. Even his most experienced advisors were stunned into a dull, thick state of shock. The surviving Secret Service agents were talking, blaming, pointing fingers—covering their asses. The President put his face in his hands and tried to think.

Just two hours earlier the day was unfolding as a rare, stress-free delight. He and the First Lady and their two daughters had flown via Marine One to Richmond, where they were making a photo-op visit to an inner city school that was showing promise using a newly-developed curriculum. The children were scrubbed and beaming, assembled on the playground in the shape of a big letter O. The President laughed out loud when he saw it, and treasured the look on his daughter’s faces as they realized what they were seeing out the window.

The helicopter touched down gently. The President stepped to the door and waved, then turned his back as he helped his girls down the steps. It all felt so good that he feared his grin would come across as goofy, but he just didn’t care. This was the change he’d dreamed would come about during his time in the White House.

Following a brief welcome and introduction ceremony by the school’s principal, the first family made their way into the school building for a tour. Each of the girls was assigned and honor roll escort, and the excitement was palatable. The President thought to himself he’d never felt more like the President than at this fine moment.

Suddenly, time slowed down. The President could remember every detail so very clearly, but it seemed to be a bizarre dream—a moment out of a science fiction movie. An overwhelming force threw him sideways, but there was no violent explosion. He felt himself in the air, then felt a blow to his ribs, and the taste of metal in his mouth as his head struck the floor. Panic swept over him like a rogue wave, and his mind could conjure only minor thoughts—Where is my wife? Where are my girls?

In seconds, the room was flooded with men firing automatic weapons. Seconds later, the room was awash in blood, and the smell of gunpowder. A Secret Service agent knelt to shout orders into his ear, only to fall across his chest lifeless before the first command could be understood. The President rolled out from under the dead agent, and rose to a crouch—he scanned the madness, thinking the same simple thoughts. Where is my wife? Where are my girls?

And then, it was over. Men in suits lay across the room, dead and dying. It was impossible to distinguish between the bodies of his Secret Service detail and the attackers. It was a hell he’d never imagined, and for the first time he managed another thought: Why am I alive? What do I do now? And once again—Where is my wife? Where are my children?

A group of men he did not recognize, dressed in riot gear, exploded through the cafeteria doors. How much time had passed? Ten seconds? Two minutes? He willed his mind to work, but the horror of it all was so foreign to him. The men surrounded him, lifted him and carried him out of the door in a well-rehearsed sprint. Back aboard Marine One, The President fought back his feelings of panic, and shouted at the agent who appeared to be in charge, “Where are my kids? Where is my wife?”

The agent spoke briefly into his headset, then looked The President in the eye. “We’re not sure, Mr. President. The React Team is sweeping the grounds—if I had to bet, I’d say their detail has them secured in a side room, waiting for an all-clear signal.”

Once back at the White House, The President struggled to keep his cool. It was obvious that every federal agent within a hundred miles was focused on the situation, but the minutes felt like hours. At last, his security chief approached. “We’ve got to get back aboard Marine One, Mr. President. I’ll brief you in the air.”

Three minutes later, they were airborne. The President was surprised by the relatively few people onboard, but said nothing. His security chief hung up his cell phone, and spoke.

“We got one of them—four blocks from the school, when he was trying to switch cars. He had the first lady in his van; Mr. President, she’s dead. He was planning to leave her there to be found, with a note pinned to her jacket. The React Team has the suspect onboard a helo out of Quantico, and we’re going to rendezvous with them at a CIA facility. We should arrive about fifty minutes after them.”

“Tell me what the note said.”

“It said you have twenty-four hours to resign from office on national television. Or your daughters die.”

The security chief’s phone rang, and The President motioned he should take the call. The remaining time on the flight The President sat in silence.

Marine One landed next to a barn, on what appeared to be a horse farm.

“What is this place?” he asked as the team moved towards the barn doors.

“This place doesn’t exist, Sir.”

Again, The President felt as though he was viewing a wild, three-dimensional movie. They entered the barn, only to find it empty, save for a wall-to-wall concrete slab, and a single elevator. The elevator ride took less than half a minute, and opened into an underground bunker complex. A man dressed in black stood in front of them when the doors opened.

“Mr. President, follow me,” he said. “The rest of you may be seated in the conference room at the end of this hall.”

“I want my security chief with me,” The President announced.

“No, Sir,” the man replied. “You do not.”

The President began to raise his voice when his security chief interrupted.

“He’s right, Mr. President.”

The President followed the man in black down a brightly lit corridor. At the end of the hall, they entered a gray, concrete room—the room was empty except for a six-foot commercial grade tool storage cabinet. The President also noticed a drain in the center of the floor, and a number of eye bolts rising up from the smooth cement floor.

“Here’s the deal, Mr. President. It appears we are dealing with a very organized, extremely professional white supremacist group. This guy looks as cool, and as mean, as anyone I’ve ever encountered.”

“What’s he said?”

“Nothing. He asked for his lawyer.”

“I’m told the note said twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours before my daughters are killed.”

“I’m aware that, Sir.”

“Well, we don’t have time to get him a lawyer—we need him to talk!”

“I would agree with that assessment, Sir.”

“Can you make him talk?”

“Using the tools inside that tool chest there, I could get Osama Bin Laden to convert to Christianity.”

“Do it,” The President said.

“Sorry, Mr. President. The Attorney General is investigating torture allegations. We have agents that are going to go to jail. I can’t help you.”

“These are my children,” hissed The President. “My children.”

“It’s always someone’s children, Sir.”

“I will grant you amnesty! This is an issue of national security!”

“Let me ask you, Mr. President: Don’t you think national security is always involved in these things? Or do you think we do it to people just for fun?”

The door opened behind them, and a man strapped into a dental chair was wheeled into the room. Without a word, the attendant used come-along straps to secure the chair to the eye bolts, then exited without making eye contact. The man in black checked the restraints, and applied another strip of duct tape on the prisoner’s mouth.

“The good news, Mr. President, is this ain’t rocket science. The key is to get him dislike the pain more than he loves his cause.”

“But he’ll say anything to stop the pain,” The President countered. “How will we know if it’s true?”

The man in black smiled sadly.

“It goes like this: You hurt him until he talks. You tell us what he said, and we go into rescue mode. But, there’s a catch—you keep hurting him until you hear from us that the girls are safe. It motivates him, see? Motivates him to talk early, and give us the fastest way to get the girls back. Just explain the rules to him.”

“I can’t do this,” The President said.

“You’re call. But I’d encourage you to take some time to think it over. If you decide you’d rather get him a lawyer, let me know. I’ll be out in the hall.”

The man in black closed the door behind him, and sat down to wait.