Tuesday, August 02, 2005

The Heart and Soul of Defective Management

The Heart & Soul of Defective Management

I’m so relieved Our Fearless Leader has pulled an end run around those dumb ol’ Senators and appointed John “kick down & kiss up” Bolton to be U. S. Ambassador to the United Nations.

Ever since I learned about the U.N. back in the ‘50’s, when I was a little kid, I’ve been burdened by its tiresome idealism. After all, this organization was put together after the unimaginable horrors of World War II in hopes that yet another war, this one a world ENDER, could be prevented. Can you imagine?! I didn’t think so.

But John Bolton and the Bush Administration know there’s no sense trying to arrive at an understanding with the rest of the world----not when we’ve got more nukes, jets, aircraft carriers, and other WMD’s than anybody else. Why negotiate when we can obliterate? We don’t need a world forum, all we need is a place to threaten those who don’t do as we demand.

That is, of course, why we’ve pulled out of international law treaties, why we’ve trampled the Geneva Conventions, why we’ve thumbed our noses at the Kyoto environment treaty signed by 180 other nations, why we charged into Iraq with a Coalition of the Billing instead of a Coalition of the Willing.

This is America, goddamn it, and if the rest of the world doesn’t want to play by our rules, why, we’ll just take our ball home. And that’s why I wouldn’t be surprised if John Bolton, about a month after he has become Ambassador, puts a big ol’ lock on the front door of the United Nations Building over by the East River.

“What’s this?!” say the other ambassadors, as they pull up in their big limos with the diplomatic plates.

“I’m evicting you all,” says Bolton.

“But you’re not our landlord. This building has been deeded in perpetuity to the United Nations!”

“Our Supreme Court just made a new decision,” says Bolton. “If the government decides it has a better idea, a more useful way to develop real estate for the common weal, it can seize private property by right of eminent domain.”

“But this isn’t private property! It belongs to the whole world!”

“It’s just another racket. And it’s getting in America’s way. As I once said, you can knock down ten stories of this dump and not miss a thing. So why not knock down all forty stories and put up something the community can really use, like a Mega-Walmart?”

“You’re putting in a Mega-Walmart?!” ask the stunned ambassadors.

“Well, first we turn it over to the Waltons. Then THEY build the super-store.”

“But what about Macy’s and Gimbel’s and Bloomingdale’s and Ohrbach’s?! You may drive them out of business!” say the ambassadors.

“That’s the free market at its finest, folks,” says Bolton.

“I’ve got a better idea,” says the Red Chinese Ambassador to the U.N. “Why don’t you deed that property over to us and cut out those greedy Walton middlemen!?”

“You mean…..” says Bolton.

“That’s right. We’ll build a WONGmart on the U. N. site. After all, everything Walmart sells is manufactured in Red China. So let US run the store and we’ll give the American consumer even BIGGER savings than he gets at Walmart. And we’ll pay the workers even less, and make them work even longer hours, too! Prices will be lower than the morale at CIA Headquarters.”

“I’m stunned at the beauty of this…..” says Bolton. Just then his cell phone rings. He answers it. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“John, you’re doing wonderful work up there in Pinkoville.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“In fact, you’re doing such good work that you’ve worked yourself right out of a job….”

“You mean, Mr. President….”

“That’s right, John. I’m outsourcing your ambassadorship. From now on all your duties will be handled by some guys working out of a phone boiler-room in Shanghai.”

“There will BE no more American Ambassador to the U.N.?”

“Nope. Thanks to you. Now that you’ve destroyed the U.N., why have an ambassador to it?”

“What about the guys in Shanghai, Mr. President. Do they get a title?”

“They’re the Ambassador Pro-Tem, John. In fact, for the next several months, the ambassadorial work of all other members of the U.N. will be handled by phone boiler- rooms.”

“And after that?”

“Nada, Big John. Zilch. If some of those ambassadors want to apply for jobs in the Wongmart Bigbox that’s going up on this site, that’s their funeral. But tell them not to expect diplomatic immunity for parking or any other damn thing after today. That diplomatic immunity thing always stuck in my craw, didn’t it stick in yours, Big John?”

“But Mr. President, what will my NEXT job be?”

“Next job? Did you really think I’d want you in my administration after you axe-murdered the world’s one forum for peace, the United Nations?!”


“Anyway, look how bad you made us look when all that publicity came out about you bullying your underlings, and kissing up to your upperlings, and bending intelligence reports around to fit policy needs, and badmouthing the United Nations…. John, if I kept you in this administration, you might cost my brother votes when he runs for President in 2008…. The best thing you can do is fall on your own sword. Capische? But if you choose life and want to make a million dollar publishing deal for a tell-all book, well, who am I to stop you? I’m sure nothing will happen to your plane when you start flying all over, publicizing the damn book……..just like I was sure nothing would happen to Sen. Paul Wellstone when he campaigned for re-election back in 2002.”

“But Mr President, something DID happen to Sen. Wellstone.”

“Well, I guess that just goes to show that accidents CAN happen . But that doesn’t mean you should hide under the bed now that you’ve resigned in disgrace.”

“I have?”

“It’s either that or you’ve been outsourced. Which do you prefer?”

“Does the Senate have to approve my outsourced replacement?”

“Naaaw. I’ll step around them and appoint who I damn please, same as I did with you, Ambassador Kiss-my-cowboy’s-candy-ass.” And George broke into uncontrollable fits of barking laughter.

Thoroughly defeated, John Bolton hung his head low. “Mr. President, can I ask one more question?”

“Make it quick, toughguy.”

“What country are you going to outsource my ambassadorship to?”

“What country has the cheapest, most plentiful, labor, Musclehead?”

“Red China?”

“Close, but no egg roll, you mustachioed moron. North Korea. They’re starving over there. They’ll work for NOTHING.”

“But North Korea’s part of the Axis of Evil!”

“So. You think it really matters to WHOM we outsource the American ambassadorship, now that you’ve flattened the U.N.? And it's not only the U.N. Don’t you realize that America itself has become a fiction, a shell waiting for the wrecking ball, a memory, a unproductive, retrograde, dinosaur subject to seizure by multi-national eminent domain? Hell, Red China and other debtor nations are foreclosing on the whole shebang in the next few weeks…”

“No more America?”

“It’s already history, John. It’s not just you you put out of a job. I’m going to be outsourced, too! Of course, my golden parachute beats the pants off yours.”

“I don’t even get severance, Mr. President!”

“I know, I know. But don’t you get a little pension from your State Department job?”

“It’s a pittance.”

“You can drop by Crawford and dig postholes if you’re not afraid of getting your hands dirty.”

“Afraid hell! I’ve got the dirtiest hands in the country, Mr. President!”

“Oh, your hands are filthy all right, but they’re FAR from the dirtiest hands even in the White House, John B.”

“But I’m hired, Mr. President…?.”

“Sure, at minimum wage with no medical or dental or vacation package, John. And better stop calling me Mr. President. I’ve been downsized & outsourced to Bangalore. The new President is V.K. Vishnawanda. I can give you his 800 number if you need anything….”

Ambassador John Bolton didn’t say thing, just pouted out his lower lip, hung his head lower still, and walked off the site with all the other U. N. Ambassadors, who could soon be seen in a nearby park, perusing the classified ads in the N Y Times jobs wanted section for jobs for men not afraid to get their soft hands dirty and their big egos bruised.


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