By Mark Lax  2011
Money is, however, primary on his mind. After musing about perhaps selling the somewhat white or
Asian looking children of indigenous women on the internet, he drifts into an extemporaneous jag
on an alcohol confiscation program. Note to organizers: beer does not burn, so stop using it to pad
your quota. I have no idea what this means at the time, but everyone else does.

Part two of the speech, which I wish he would get to, is called “Blame The Farmers.” Pretty self
explanatory. The best classical version of this was performed by the President of Ghana, who
blamed the farmers for not making use of the tractors he had bought them, even though he had
neglected to buy those things that trail behind the tractors. In Saddam Hussein’s virtuoso variant,
he ordered the execution of one third of the audience attending the speech.

Our guy starts going on about how they have to import rice and beans, noting that before the
revolution they used to export it. That’s an aside. It doesn’t really seem to bother him. He also
rattles off a few words about giant spiders on a banana boat and how this shouldn’t be viewed as
entirely his problem. As a sop to the people of the port, which seems to be in another country, he
offers to send a note of consolation to the families of the dead sailors.

Then he gets down to brass tacks and does the “Blame The Farmers” rant straight from the book.
In doing this he clears up the alcohol confiscation mystery I was having.

It seems that other than tarantula infested bunches of bananas and, potentially, children, his sole
other cash crop is coca leaves. He has made the manifestly poor decision to nationalize the drug
plantations. This led to political hacks doing what they do when handed farms: anything but farm.
All this shoots to heck his long term plan to refine the coca leaves into cocaine, which is why he was
confiscating alcohol to begin with. Not that he’s suspending the alcohol confiscation program. Oh
hell, no.

I am now decanting the Cosmic Awareness and letting it breathe. (It’s either Cosmic Awareness or
Lectricshave in Extra Virgin Olive Oil. I hope Ms. Swan didn’t screw up.) Even this guy has to be
getting to part three by now.

This particular Big Gumby shot his way into power thirty years ago. Glorious forces of his revolution
drove unarmed women and children before them as they converged on this very complex.
Oppressive capital-fascists then in residence here were hesitant about firing in their direction. Big
Gumby not only had no problem using unarmed women and children as shields, but also shot
through them. Despite this ruthlessness, Big Gumby has been deposed in bloodless coups twice
since. Currently, a majority of people with guns in this country want him to lead it.

The third part is the “One Man Call and Response.” At some time during this portion of the speech
Big Gumby will invariably mouth the words “So I ask myself.” This is the Autdtraumagique: my cue to
douse the bugger.

And I had better make this good. Somehow this has to outweigh the acceptance speech Roberto
Sanchez’s son Paco will give upon receiving his Nobel Prize: forever hence known for the phrase “I
had to wear my sister’s underwear to school.” The big screen TV was disabled in a quite
predictable water balloon accident. Repairs for such had a cascading and devastating impact on
the Sanchez’s finances. I still may have time to rectify this. I hope. But this was my best chance.
God of organization, I am not.

Paco’s speech could have, should have, been inspirational—the type of thing that sends kids from
the barrios straight to Radio Shack. That’s really what anomaly control is all about. Instead, it sort of
uninspired, causing some science prone barrio types to stay in the alleys, playing with broken glass
and drinking forties.

The way I look at it, the guy who wins the Nobel Prize for inventing anti gravity should either thank
his dad, or just thank the committee, and sit down. He shouldn’t be so filled with venom that he has
to spout off “My dad was such an idiot he bankrupted the family fixing his big screen TV and I had
to wear my sister’s underwear to school because we had no money” the first time a group of
cameras are pointed in his direction. Paco just said the first thing that came to mind. Totally my
bad. Or it will be.

(Not that there’s anything really all that right about compelling a physicist to speak in the first place!
What do they expect him to say? Do they expect it to be good? Even Big Gumby here can’t make
his speeches good--and that’s all he does for a living.)

Two hours even. He hasn’t said “So I ask myself” yet. For reasons that only people who feel entitled
to give three hour speeches know, the sole person they can confidently ask advice of, is
themselves.  No one else is qualified. The current league champion, Hugo Chavez, has added the
rhetorical flourish of formally answering himself, often saying “So I answer myself.”

The actual content of this, the concluding portion of this three hour one-way, varies depending on
how badly the Big Gumby has to relieve himself. In general, this portion is the entirety of every
speech Barack Obama has ever given: all a big  ‘Yes We Can’ or, in the average Big Gumby
parlance, ‘Yes I Can.’

Nearing three hours. He is not giving back the booze he confiscated. Back on this. Not even
thinking about it. He won’t even ask the secret police what they did with it. Apparently, keeping the
secret police sauced up is in everyone’s interest. Or perhaps he is simply making it clear that he
doesn’t have it.

“Let me tell you something,” he starts, which causes the Cosmic Awareness to tingle. “Let me tell
you why I am the only person in this country with a career. The rest of you have jobs. You aspire to
have ambition, which would require work for those few of you prone to it. Someone must have the
passion and the caring to tell you where the answers are. This is my duty, my calling.”

Oh please no. This is not the place for the ‘Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown’ part. That
should have been in part one, if it was to be anywhere.

“I wake up every morning and I ask myself questions. I am very deliberate and passionate about
this. I say to myself, every day…”

Ok. Don’t have to say it twice. I got him good. Right between the eyes.

I wasn’t sure it worked. He didn’t break stride or blink. He just carried on in that rooster-like way of

Not that I was expecting Socrates. Without missing a beat he projected this emphatic question:
“Why are all the women in this room so butt ugly?”

Odin’s blood! I was invisible, not intangible. He didn’t even give me time to dive under the chairs! I
stopped counting the shots that rang out.

Poking my mind’s eye was that I had just discovered the one thing someone should never say.

Or, at the very least, not say in a sweltering aircraft hangar while in the presence of armed women
in J.C. Penny suits.

After five shots, I knew he wasn’t getting back up. After fifteen shots, he stopped talking.

Big Gumby grabbed the podium and started spinning like a lawn sprinkler. “Sure! This you can do,
you Che Guevara wannabes. You can’t even grow pot. And it’s a weed! Che Guevara was a sissy!
A sissy!! You’re stupid, all of you. You’re stupid if you think this is important! This all was supposed
to be important. Or fun. This isn’t fun, anymore. Everyone I meet is just like you.”

Sometimes a change in crooks is all the progress you can hope for. I was feeling fairly satisfied with

Then I remembered the clipboard. And Paco Sanchez. No doubt about it: I had doused the wrong
self-absorbed Latino.

Oh well. Surf’s up!