In all Fairness

[Blendi]

In all Fairness, J. David Narkiewicz


Every other college student in the greater D.C. area was
trying to get an internship with a member of Congress. There were three ways to get such a position: have a well connected family, pick up the soap in the congressman's shower or stick your nose in a place I found olfactorily repulsive. Besides, interning paid crap compared to other government jobs. I'd set my sights on Custodial Assistant at the Capitol Building,search number A8042299625.
I'd decided a suit was not in order for my interview, but I did go with a shirt and tie. As I'd been instructed when informed of my interview, I walked through the gardens at the back of the Capital Building until I reached the East door. It was opened before I could ring the bell. I was greeted by three rather large men in suits complete with little microphones in their ears and conspicuous bulges under their arm pits.

"Clark Thomas?" asked the tall black man who, amongst the
three, seemed to be in charge.

"Yes," I stammered, feeling just a tad intimidated by the
not-so-Secret Service.
"Identification," he demanded and I provided in triplicate. I was photographed, finger printed, metal detected and thankfully not cavity searched -- no job was worth that. With a visitor's pass clipped to my shirt pocket, I was personally guided to my destination by two football types also draped in suits and wearing sun glasses even though they wereindoors. They grunted for me to proceed through a set of huge double doors.
My fantasy of being interviewed in a decrepit boiler room by an old codger with the name "Bubba" sewn on his shirt were quickly dispelled. There were no less than ten people sitting at a large wooden table, all ready to interview me. Counting the camera man and the stenographer, complete with mysterious stenographer type machine, I felt like Christ at the last supper. The difference here -- aside from the fact that I didn't have a sixties lack-of-a-haircut and wasn't wearing a toga -- was that eight of the disciples were female. They all sat at the table and had that "send chills down your spine" look I commonly attribute solely to militant lesbians.

I stood there until the blue-rinse woman sitting in the middle of the table spoke into her mike, "Good Morning, Mr. Thomas. Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable."

I caught myself looking around behind me in search of my father, Mr. Thomas. Left with no one else to blame, I sat down at a table of my own. For comfort they'd provided a pitcher of water and two glasses -- I was feeling more comfortable already.

With camera rolling and stenographer typing away, the blue-rinsed woman, Congress woman Katrina "Kat" Schroeder, started with my birth and asked me every conceivable question about my life. It got weird when she reached the part about the eighth grade dance. "Did you take one Kimberly Campbell to your eighth grade dance when you were thirteen?"

"Yes, I did, ma'am." I had no idea how any of this would make me a better broom pusher, but bureaucracy was not to be trifled with, especially at the federal level.
"During the course of the evening, did you say, and I quote `I guess it was a date. That means we're supposed to kiss good night.'"
I just stared at her completely bewildered. Schroeder didn't take that as a response. "Answer the questions, please," she said.
"I guess I did," I stumbled. That was seven years ago, as if I'd remember exactly what I'd said.

"Ha!" she screeched causing one of my glasses to shatter. "So you confess to making sexual advances towards a thirteen year old girl." The other women at the table all nodded in agreement and murmured like an impassioned lynch mob. Out of desperation, I turned to one of the men at the table hoping for a glimmer of support. It was only then that I recognized him as Ned "pants-around-the-ankles" Kennedy. Since this had nothing to do with a Congressional pay raise, he was staring at the ceiling doing his best to ignore me. Kat Schroeder had finished and promptly introduced, the right honorable Anita Quill, Congresswoman and legal scholar from Oklahoma. She was one of those fat, intimidate you with her breath, black women. At the snap of her sweaty black fingers an intern-type entered the room carrying a sheet of paper. It was deposited on my desk. From the way the intern walked, I could tell he was a type 2 intern.

Congresswoman Quill said, "Please, read the following letter. It shall be entered into the record as Piece of Evidence 94." Pieces of Evidence 1 through 93 were such epic and incriminating documents as my kindergarten report card which stated I worked and played well with others and a detention I'd received in tenth grade for not having my Spanish book covered --Muchas gracias para nada, Meastro Stewart.

As I read Piece of Evidence 94, I could feel my face turning red. This document dated back to when I worked as a volunteer during the last presidential campaign. "Did you read the letter?" demanded Congresswoman Quill.

"Yes, I did, Congresswoman."

"That's Congressperson," she corrected.

Under my breath, I said, "If your ass were any tighter, you could use it to turn a piece of coal into a diamond?" Of course, since there was a microphone in front of me, the whisper became a shout and echoed from every corner of the room. "diamond, diamond, diamond..."

The congressperson just glared and asked, "Were you the
author of this letter?"

I'd long since given up on getting the job, but still, this was a question I'd gladly dodge. "Well, the signature isn't mine." It certainly wasn't. The letter was written on stationary liberated from the presidential candidate I'd worked for. It was a form letter of sorts, blank save for the pre-printed closing at the bottom complete with "God Bless," and the candidate's signature.
"You didn't answer my question," Ms. Quill retorted.
"Maybe I should refresh your memory." She put her librarian glasses on, picked up the letter and began reading:


Dear Ms. Travis,

Knowing that I surely enjoy your support in the upcoming election, I'd like to bring your attention to another issue of dire importance. A campaign worker of mine, one Mr. Clark Thomas, has been without your romantic companionship since you began your semester abroad in England. During your three months hiatus, Mr. Thomas has become -- to put it politely -- rather tense. I'd greatly appreciate if you might find it in your heart (among other parts of you anatomy, including those closest to your heart) to relieve Mr. Thomas of his burdens. With his upcoming trip to England, I believe that you are in an excellent position to try a variety of excellent position with my most loyal campaign working...


Completely dead pan and serious, Quill read the remainder of the letter. Needless to say, it became much more graphic including the candidates reference to handcuffs, chocolate sauce and whip cream. When Quill finished, she placed her copy of the letter down and turned to me. "Are you or are you not the author of said letter?"

"She was my girlfriend and it was a private correspondence,"
I defended.
"So! You admit it," Quill replied slapping her palm on the
table. "You admit to proposing a variety of sexual acts with a woman in a foreign country and you completely ignored the international implications of your sexual harassment."

International?" I asked. "She was an American and my
girlfriend. We were intimate at the time."

"So, you admit to having a sexual relationship with her, a member of the opposite sex. A man making love to a woman!
No! Further! Questions!"


Anna Richards, distinguished senator from Texas, was next. I fended off several thousand more questions relating to my "permanent record", including a spit ball incident during the third grade. Then she brought out the big guns and asked, "In your parent's home, what type of VCR do they own?"

Here it was, the buy American tirade. "It's a Toshiba."

"And what type of VCR did they have at the William Adam S. Preston Junior High where you attended the seventh grade."
"Shit," I thought to myself, having learned my lesson about
muttering under my breath. "It was a Toshiba."

Senator Richards knew my back was against the wall on this one. "And would you like to elaborate what happened when your seventh grade health class watched the film on sexual education."

"The VCR malfunctioned," I said with solemn sincerity. Hey, if politicians could gloss over the truth, I could.

The senator from Texas was not nearly satiated. "And what caused this supposed malfunction?"

"My guess would be a series of encoded infrared pulses."

"This is a congressional hearing," she said coolly. "We don't guess here. And what caused those `infrared pulses.'"

"Most likely some type of oscillator, a crystal, driven by a power source."

"Enough of this tomfoolery!" She whipped out a folder emblazoned with large black letters, "Clark Thomas's Permanent Record." She selected a page from the rather thick dossier and began to read: "During the documentary "Your Growing Body," Clark [Thomas] used a remote control brought from home to freeze the picture whenever a part of the female anatomy was shown and to fast forward through shots of the male anatomy..." Richards put the paper down and asked, "Should I go on. Should I humiliate by announcing your sentence?" She paused and added snidely, "One week's detention."

To fully appreciate what I'd done, you had to picture the scene. The frantic teacher trying to figure out the VCR's controls as the tv was filled with a pair of breasts in an advanced stage of development. The girls turning red and the boys laughing. I didn't bother to elaborate about how the vice principal
kept bursting out in laughter when he tried to lecture me. I didn't tell her about the giggles that came from the conference the vice principal had with my parents about the incident. I didn't tell her how I was elected president of my class next year, selected as captain of my soccer team and the numerous other junior high type honors that were rained on me. I simply said, "I am humbled by your revelations."

She smiled smugly believe she had humiliated me beyond all words. "No further questions."

Senator Stan Nunn, an expert on the military and foreign affairs, was next. At least he was a male interviewer. After taking a sip of water, clearing his throat, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, loosening his tie, tightening his tie and strumming his fingers on the desk nervously while loosening his tie, he asked, "December 7, 1941 where were you?"

That was a simply one to answer. "I wasn't born yet."

"So you had no fore-knowledge of Japan's impending attack on
Pearl Harbor?" he ventured but not without some hesitation.

"Obviously not," I responded.

He quickly terminated his portion of the interview. "No further questions." He and old "pants around the ankles" celebrated their victory by giving each other a nervous half smile.

To say I'd gotten annoyed at the entire proceedings was an understatement. Congresswoman Bethanne Dole was next. "Is it true that you had intercourse with a woman named Sherry Hewson after you'd offered her temporary lodging in your apartment?"

I could feel the wisps of steam coming from my ears as I glared Ms. Dole. I could really care about my first kiss in the eighth grade or spitballs in the third grade. Sherry was a taboo subject. In my best imitation of a "send chills down your spine" militant lesbian reaction, I responded, "She and I were lovers."

Dole shuffled her notes trying to thwart off my "if looks could kill" glare. "After engaging in sexual relations with Ms. Hewson, did you not then assault her only sibling while she and her mother watched?"

"That's it!" I shouted standing up. "Sherry and I had been on two or three dates. No big deal. Then she calls me one night in tears and says her brother has beaten her up, again. So I let her stay and yes, we made love. But if your courts had kicked her brother out of the house, the first or fifth time he'd beaten her up, Sherry wouldn't have been at my place having consenting sex. No, he was a minor and the courts refused remove him from the home."

All ten of them were silent. The clicking of the stenographer had stopped and only myself and the hum of the camera continued unabated. "After she found a place of her own, I went to her house to help her move. Her brother picked a fight and I finished it. Christ, Sherry's mom even took me out to dinner to say thank you."

Meanwhile, in the boiler room in the basement, the most recent Supreme Court nominee, also named Clark Thomas, sat talking with an old coot wearing a shirt with the name "Dutch" sewn on it. "Do you know how to use a mop ringer?" choked Dutch as lit up another unfiltered Marlborough.

Nominee Clark Thomas solemnly replied, "Although I'd like to answer that at this time, I cannot venture an opinion on the matter."

Meanwhile over in the White House, the President sat back and smiled, knowing that all along his nominee, Clark Thomas, was currently being interviewed by Dutch, a man who'd inhaled pure ammonia on a daily basis for the last fifty years. This was destine to be the easiest confirmation hearing in the history of the Supreme Court. The President was not completely oblivious to the plight of Clark Thomas, twenty year old college student in search of a summer job. After being grilled by the congressional committee, the President planned on rewarding young Clark by having him appointed as a congressional intern.

[Blendi]

Offerings had been down the past several Sundays and the preacher decided he had to do something to change the trend. The next Sunday, as the plate was being passed he said "Brothers and Sisters, I don't like to have to do this, but there is a man in the congregation who is having an affair with another parishioner's wife, and if there is not at least five dollars in the collection, I will reveal his name. Later, as he counted the money he found 2O five dollar bills, and a two dollar bill with a note that read "Forever hold your peace, I'll have that other three dollars before sundown."

[Blendi]

An escaped convict broke into a house and tied up a young couple who had been sleeping in the bedroom. As soon as he had a chance, the husband turned to his voluptuous young wife, bound up on the bed in a skimpy nightgown, and whispered, 'Honey, this guy hasn't seen a woman in years. Just cooperate with anything he wants. If he wants to have sex with you, just go along with it and pretend you like it. Our lives depend on it.' 'Dear,' the wife hissed, spitting out her gag, 'I'm so relieved you feel that way, because he just told me he thinks you have a really nice, tight -looking ass!!!!!!!

[Blendi]

Seems God was just about done creating the universe, but he had two extra things left in his bag of creations, so he decided to split them between Adam and Eve. He told the couple that one of the things he had to give away was the ability to stand up while urinating. "It's a very handy thing", God told the couple, "I was wondering if either one of you wanted that very ability." Adam jumped up and blurted, "Oh, give that to me! I'd love to be able to do that! It seems a sort of thing a man should do. Oh please, oh please, oh please, let me have that ability, It'd be so great! When I'm working in the garden or naming the animals, I could just stand there and let it fly. It'd be so cool, I could write my name in the sand. Oh please God, let it be me who you give that gift to, let me stand and pee, oh please..." On and on he went like an excited little boy who had to pee. Eve just smiled and told God that if Adam really wanted that so badly, that he should have it. It seemed to be the sort of thing that would make him happy and she really wouldn't mind if Adam were the one given this ability. And so Adam was given the ability to urinate while in a vertical position. He was happy and did celebrate by wetting down the bark on the tree nearest him, laughing with delight all the while. "Fine," God said looking back into his bag of leftovers, "What's left here? Oh yes, 'multiple orgasms'.