In case you ever doubted that truth is indeed stranger then fiction, take Dante's Inferno, Animal Farm and 1984 and meld them together into one bizarre mess. Next, compare the mess you made with that made daily in Congress, at corporate chicken farms and or animal slaughterhouses in this country. Social and political satire just can't compete with the real world in terms of unbelievable premises and kinky plot constructions.

It's as if we're on the Doublespeak speedway going 120 miles an hour having just made a sharp right turn toward the city of "Orwellian" where Blair and Bush have been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize and Interpol, in its infinite wisdom, has named Augustine Chihuri an honorary vice-president of Interpol. Who is he? Chihuri is one of Mugabe's torturing cronies. He is a recipient of targeted sanctions by both the European Union and the United states!

The U.S. government now adamantly maintains that it can pry into the attorney-client relationship whenever it wants. Believe it or not, no member of Congress was allowed to see the first Patriot Act before its passage. Unbelievably, no debate was tolerated regarding it by the House and Senate leadership.

We don't mean what we say anymore and people aren't really interested unless they're the ones on the unlucky end of the "doublespeak" scrutiny-scope. People are running scared. They are frightened by any person or writing that questions or touches upon this contradictory reordering of cultural priorities.

There's a reason for increased intellectual interest in the McCarthy era. We are now entering the city limits of "New McCarthyism" and I'm being conservative in my pronouncements. Get your nose unglued from the Fox Network and look around you.

Some city and county libraries in the United States have taken to destroying their book borrowing records on a daily basis so that federal agencies will not be able to requisition them. It is a felony for a library worker to inform a patron that the patron's library records have been viewed by a federal investigating entity. Anyone convicted of a felony can by definition be legally considered to be a terrorist or worse.

In section 501 of the new Patriot Act II we are given the new legal definition of domestic terrorism. The definition of a terrorist is "any action that endangers human life that is a violation of any Federal or State law." In fact any violation of either federal or state law can result in an "enemy combatant" terrorist designation.

For "art" to be relevant it must somehow reflect its time in words or images. However, that's just what most mainstream or prominence aspiring art ezines bend over backwards to avoid. Anything that might smack of the controversial is suspect in this climate of increasing personal and social myopia. Just take a look at what are considered the major poetry ezines. It 's clear where their priorities and interests are. Dissent and engagement with the great issues of our time are anathema. You will find in the art world today a determined retreat into the back closet of the stupidly clever and philosophically irrelevant.

It is quite conceivable that were Orwell's 1984 to have come out in 2003 there would be individuals and agencies that would try to have it banned. Recent congressional votes and executive presidential executive orders would make that not only possible but even likely. If a voiced or written point of view can be defined as "unpopular" it can now be classified as a possible terrorist act.

There's no avant gard anymore because of the refusal of the mainstream ezine and print journals to cultivate meaningful divergence regarding points of view. They are afraid of the "establishment" they represent or are so desirous of becoming part of. Controversy for them is taboo. Stories or poetry with something important to say are excluded. If the material that pseudo "highbrow" ezines showcase is unfortunate enough to generate any comment beyond the pleasantly obvious the ezines run scared.

For some time I've been wondering what actually happened to the voice of the American "left" and who really emasculated it. I wrote a short satirical piece asking that question and submitted it to Strawberry Fields for publication. Why should you be interested in this? The answer is that what I encountered represented a form of "doublespeak". It points to the bias, fear and subterfuge of the intellectual community. You've doubtless encountered the problem as well or soon will.

Witness the following chronological chain of events as it impacted on your flaky correspondent Paolo Honorificas. The names of everyone have been changed to protect the guilty. Set an appropriate rhythm going in your mind. Something like the old Dragnet theme: Dum de dum dum. Dum! Dum!

Remember as well that Paolo is a complete idiot. He is not to be trusted or believed. In fact the name of the journal quoted is fictitious. Paolo liked it because of a song he got off on while reading some pornography. Don't go looking around for the ezine in question as you might find it.

2-20-03...email from Paolo to Strawberry Fields Ezine:

"Dear Editor; please consider the following short story for publication." (The short story was included.)

3-18-03...email from Strawberry Fields Ezine to Paolo:

"There is a lot of merit to the piece; but, and this is of course completely subjective, the humor doesn't work throughout the whole story, and when it doesn't work, the story drags a little bit. That is the only fault I can find with an otherwise very original and clever piece that reminds me of work by authors like Rabelais, Kafka and Burroughs. Nevertheless, it is a hard fault to overlook. I'm not sure that we can use this piece as it is, but if you think it can be reworked or if you can convince us that we're missing something essential in the satire, we'd be very interested in giving you a fair hearing. Thank you again, and please feel free to respond to this email."

3-19 Email from Paolo to Strawberry Fields:

"You're right! You called it a satire and correctly touched on some of the influences behind it. What more can I ask for? On the other hand, (here Paolo swallows his intellectual pride and buckles under) if you took your computer and deleted what you did not like what might we have? I know that takes time. I'm busy myself. However, something very interesting might emerge that we would both be happy with. A good editor is like that. I don't think you should use the piece as it is either, a little too adolescent I think. There is something there though. I feel it! Tell me what you think. Cheers, Paolo"

4-7-03

Email from Strawberry Fields to Paolo as a result of the ezine altering Paolo's story to their own satisfaction:

"So the piece is up on the site now. Give it a look and see what you think. Your bio blurb is also on the website, on the writers page."

5.10 -03

From Strawberry Fields after the ezine had posted Paolo's story:

"Dear Paolo: I hate to say this, but the more I think about it, the less I feel confident about the piece you sent me. I think I'm going to have to remove it." (The story had already been erased prior to Paolo having received this email. Paolo may be an idiot but he is devious and not without some smarts. Hell, he's even adopted the conceit of referring to himself in the third person!)

Conclusion? What does it all mean? What are we missing? Paolo sends a story out and gives it to an ezine free! The ezine likes it under certain conditions. Paolo gives them free license to edit the story to their subjective needs. Paolo knows full well that they have a point. He also knows that his story will not be published unless they fool around with it. A month later after the story is published, Paolo falls prey to a loss of "confidence" on the part of the editors. Paolo wonders what a loss of "confidence" might mean. For example, is it some kind of contagious disease that "artsy" editors on the "reputation make" are prone to?

Paolo thanks the editors for being polite but is well aware that under that politeness is "doublespeak" dishonesty. Paolo scratches his head. He compliments himself on a job well done as the story most definitely must have been read and generated real feeling on the part of many readers who probably deluged the editors with negative input.

Sometimes, a little dose of "negative" can be a good thing. It makes people think and that was all Paolo was trying to do in the first place. You decide. What follows is the editor's reworking of Paolo's story. See if it reminds you of "Rabelais, Kafka and Burroughs?" Paolo would not go that far. He maintains that the story is interesting, fairly well written and raises some interesting questions about ourselves and our society.

To: Mss Janet Puss Wuss, advice columnist Re: My left testicle.

Dear Janet Puss Wuss:

This is a difficult letter for me to write. I read your columns in the Watch Tower regularly. I admit to being a closet intellectual but I'm not a humanist or liberal. I know you don't like those people and neither do I. I admit to reading the New Yorker but it's when I'm alone in the privacy of my locked bathroom. When I'm finished, I hide it under my dirty clothes with the rest of the mess thrown under my bed.

Forgive me Mss Puss Wuss but I really can't call myself a Creationist. I've tried so hard to believe. I really have. I read the bible and want to assure you I am an English speaking American patriot from an upstanding fundamentalist Christian background. My father was a minister. I read English haltingly and with great difficulty. I can't spell. These facts alone prove I'm an average guy who went to church and a public school just like everybody else.

I hope you will respond to this letter by printing it in your column so that others may benefit from the terrible experience I am about to relate to you. Those without medical insurance can sympathize with my problem: For some reason my left testicle started to grow. I experienced discomfort. It grew to the size of a grapefruit. It turned a beet red. It continued to grow in fits and starts until it reached the size of a basketball. I was unable to tread water. I could only walk backwards. Whenever I touched it, it laughed. I attempted to talk it down. Nothing worked. It's laughter became so loud people began to complain. When its maniacal guffaws started keeping me up at night I came to the realization that I would have to take it to the emergency room. This was a very difficult decision. Paying customers are frowned upon there. The lines are long and I don't like answering personal questions.

Imagine, if you can, my surprise and joy when I discovered that our local hospital had been bought out by the hugely successful Mal Mart shopping center. It made sense. Everything else in this increasingly complex world of ours is stored there. Limping backwards through the magically opening Mal Mart doors I was confronted by an eighty-year-old woman with nothing on but an open vest, a huge grin and a little white nurses hat. While her teeth were obviously false the smile did appear genuine. Only later did I learn that company policy required employees to undergo plastic surgery in order to have a permanent smile attached to their faces.

She handed me a large bag. It was so cold it froze my fingers! I asked her, "Thank you, but what's this for?"

Her grin remained glued to both sides of her cheeks. There was a vacant expression on her face as she geared up for her memorized speech, "What organs do you have to donate for the good of the country and homeland defense? Please place any organs you want to donate in this bag. It's free, biodegradable and can be airlifted anywhere at a moments notice. Shop around while you make your selection. If no selection is made, one of our happy employees will be glad to make it for you."

"Um...there is an organ I wouldn't mind getting rid of. Unfortunately it's still attached. Is there someone who could remove it for me?"

The question must have come as a surprise to her. "I'm sorry sir, all questions must be taken to the Security Desk. It's now company policy due to the national emergency."

Her answer was puzzling. The more I stared at her smile the more uncomfortable I became. People were beginning to line up behind me. I was holding everyone up. Impatient mumbles could be heard far down the growing queue. A baby was crying. Individuals far back might be in desperate need of the newly remodeled emergency room as well. Some of them were probably in the midst of a fatal condition that would make my own ever-growing problem seem insignificant. There was nothing for me to do but move backwards as quickly as possible. My left testicle grew impatient. It began to hum to itself as it throbbed.

"Where is the Security Desk?" I asked, trying to look her in the face as my eyes kept traveling down to her sagging breasts.

"Just follow the flat fat feet painted on the floor," she said.

"I'm afraid I can't walk very fast. I need to rest quite often and."

"You're holding up traffic. I'm required to greet 200 people per hour. We're being watched. If you keep standing here I'll be fired!" Her breasts rippled. Her nipples began to expand. My left testicle became so excited I had to look away, centering in on the large flat fat feet that pointed in the direction I was expected to travel backwards toward.

Dear Mss Puss Wuss, believe me when I say that my progress was difficult due to the narrowness of the lanes. I managed to make my way by twisting, turning and cussing at my errant testicle. It didn't want to go. I had to yank it through the aisles. There was nothing for me to do but shop my way toward the promise of ultimate relief.

The colors assailing me were amazing. I began to have hallucinatory visions. Twelve immensely tempting and gorgeous rows of potato chips vied with ten varieties of jalapeno peppers followed by jelly beans, ace bandages and plastic boxes. They were smiling at me, screaming, "Buy me! Buy me! Buy me!" I removed my testicle from the cart that I had hoisted it on and began filling the cart up with goodies. The weight of my testicle now unsupported began to damage my knees.

There were times I could have sworn I was not going to make it! The large fat flat feet had left their tracks everywhere. I noticed a little grunge between some of their freshly painted toes while foraging through the jungle of personal care products. I could hear drums. I was afraid. Anthropologists were known to do their fieldwork in religious urban centers such as these. They often turn "native" and are never heard from again.

Just as I lowered myself to walk backwards on crumpling knees, pulling my testicle after me in spurts, I stumbled upon the elusive Security Desk. It had been camouflaged with mottled brown and green netting. All this time I had been going around in circles. Scratching myself, an eerie laughter could be heard. I knew who it was acting up. People looked at me. I pointed to the person on my right. Everyone turned in his direction. I escaped by crawling into an isle that led me to the counter I had been searching for. A small sign was positioned there. I had to squint my eyes in order to read it. The sign read "Security".

Well and good you might think. My ordeal was over. However, below the letters, in an even smaller script was another message. After a few perplexing minutes I was finally able to translate the words "Office of Homeland Security". A pimply-faced 16-year-old in a pith helmet was manning the station. "Could you help me?" I asked.

He removed his sunglasses as he turned my way. "Certainly. Helping is our most important job at Mal Mart. But I need to see three forms of identification first."

Caught off guard, I could only respond, "Hmmm, like what?"

"Most anything will do. Internal Revenue Service records. Bank statements. A letter from the Social Security Administration with your name on it. A passport." While saying this he unobtrusively raised a hand held machine that looked suspiciously like a gun and pointed it in my direction.

"Wait a minute," I cried.

"Nope. Not there."

"What's not there?" I asked.

"The chip. You really ought to have an implant you know. It makes things so much easier. Think what would happen if you ever got lost. The satellites would never be able to locate you. By the way, would you care for an eye scan? If you prefer, we can always do a finger print search."

"No you can't. I've never been fingerprinted." I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. My testicle grew another few inches. It began to sweat.

He now looked at me suspiciously. "What's the matter? Got something to hide?"

"No."

"Haven't you ever cashed a check?"

"Certainly, but you see the bank I use."

"Never been arrested?"

"Certainly not."

"Haven't you ever donated blood for the good of the country?"

"No." My face was turning very red.

"That's suspicious. Pity. I can take your prints now if you want. We can process them right away, though a blood sample would be best."

I was getting peeved. My words came out tight, a little chopped, "Look, I'm here because I have a question. What part of the store do I go to in order to have an organ removed?"

"Don't get tight and constricted with me" he yelled, now beginning to tap the top of the desk in some kind of code." We're all government employees now. Do you know what that means? No identification, no information. That's the way it works. I'm going to fill out this interview card. Do you want me to check the suspicious character section on your form?"

For some reason my testicle found this funny. It began to laugh. The teenager thought I was making fun of him. He pressed a button. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by two very hefty women dressed in overalls. Their hair was cut very short. They were wearing steel-toed boots and red bandanas.

Without so much as a pardon me, they lifted me by the armpits and literally carried me behind the counter. We entered a long hallway. I was told to place my hands on a wall and spread my legs. They searched me. I tried to resist but they were so gruff and their breath was so foul that I was in a state of shock. When a hand began to vigorously explore my groin I heard a snicker. I couldn't tell if it was coming from my testicle or one of my torturers.

"Got something nuclear in there?" one of the ladies asked as she yanked my pants down. The next thing I knew the other women began roughly grappling me in a most unseemly and pornographic manner. I could tell they enjoyed their work.

"Hell, I think it's a basketball or one of those explosive devices we've been warned about!"

"It's yours!" I yelled painfully. "I want it removed. You can have it free!"

"Shut up you terrorist scum! We've got you now!" She yanked, wrenched and tugged at my testicle which was very angry and growling furiously. "I can't open the bag," she snarled. "I think they've surgically implanted a bomb."

Her accomplice franticly responded, " I'll call the bomb squad!"

The pain they were causing was unimaginable. I screamed but they couldn't hear me due to the rising volume of laughter coming from the direction of my groin. Before I blacked out I caught a vague impression of the physical layout I was being forcefully hustled through by this time. There seemed to be countless rooms, each nestled inside the other like some kind of gigantic mystery box. In front of the door to each room was a metal detector. As we progressed, the metal detectors got grander and more complex. I wish I could tell you more but I fainted.

I woke hours later to find myself propped up in a chair. It was cold. All my clothes had been removed. Facing me was a conference table. Five men were sitting behind it. Each had a nameplate on the table positioned just in front of them. Gordon Liddy was the first to speak.

"In this time of national emergency, our office relies upon a distinguished panel of security advisors, with expertise spanning the entire spectrum of public and private life. This distinguished panel works closely with the main office core management team to set the standards that individuals must meet. You are now before that panel" I could tell he was bored. As he talked he was casually holding the palm of his left hand over an open flame fueled by a cigarette lighter.

He continued, "Your consent to these proceedings is neither needed nor necessary. Because of the possible threat you represented, certain emergency medical procedures were ordered to be performed on you while you were unconscious."

Oliver North interrupted, "The national threat represented proved to be a false alarm. The doctor's tell us they are unable to reaffix that part of your anatomy that was removed. It was donated to the national organ transplant center. In order for the operation to occur we had to take a blood sample, sperm sample, fingerprints, a retinal scan, and an eye scan."

Hedgcock coughed. He added, "Your patriotism is now unquestionable. As a reward, we provided you with your own identification chip implanted somewhere inside your body. We can't tell you where in case you are captured by real terrorists. You deserve to be congratulated for your sacrifice and donation. Don't bother to thank us. National security prevents your asking any questions. It also prevents us from answering them. Good day and good luck."

I was handed a pair of overalls and escorted back to the Security Desk. Dear Mss Puss Wuss, do I thank these well-meaning patriots or curse them? Are they devils or angels? I must say I feel a lot lighter and more nimble. My medical problem has been taken care of. Am I a hero like the people you write about? Would you take up a collection from your readers in order for me to go to Washington and demand my testicle back or at least ask for a purple heart?"