©1996, by Alison Greene

Of Hillary, the MotherBank and Uncle Bob
-or-
Why Don't the Little People Just Die
and Leave Us Alone?

I. A Persistent Thwack

Why is it that everytime the dead cat swings, it smacks Hillary Rodham Clinton upside her frosted head? I had to ask my Uncle Bob, who, as usual, was sound asleep in front of the TV set, snoring impressively enough to make his nose hairs wave in the considerable wind. When he woke up, he explained it all to me. This isn't about feminism. This isn't about First Ladydom, whatever the heck that might be, this isn't about 1996 elections. This is what Uncle Bob calls "The Dilemma."

II. Uncle Bob's Purty Lesbian Dilemma

"Looky on the TV set, thar's two women kissing."
"Yes I know, Uncle Bob, they're lesbians."
"They're kissing each other."
"Well, they probably like each other, Uncle Bob."
"But they're PURTY."
"They probably just don't know it Uncle Bob. Once they figure it out,I'm sure they'll come to their senses and start kissing you, Uncle Bob."
Uncle Bob is completed mesmerized by lesbians. Thinks of them all of the time.

III. The Dilemma Redux

Uncle Bob is faced with the same brain-sucking dilemma with HRC. He believes all the allegations are true.He believes that HRC was neck-deep in some S&L scandal. He believes that she made money at the expense of a lot of little people, just like Neil Bush and the rest of them. He believes that she's lied and covered-up this and that and that she's not done a very good job of extricating herself from this mess.

He also believes that she fired a bunch of no-good, cheating travel agents from the White House without giving them much warning. He knows that this can happen, because Uncle Bob does it everyday at the MotherBank, and he calls it "downsizing." When he replaces those no-good, cheating employees with friends of his, he calls it "right-sizing."

He believes that she's backpeddling faster than you can say "Nancy-Reagan-Red" and she's now taking to child worshipping in order to up her ratings. What Uncle Bob can't quite come to terms with is this: if Hillary's done all these things, why the hayward HECK is she a Democrat? Whyn't she a Republican? Is she trying to out-Republicate the Republicans?

The bewilderment beefs up to anger as Uncle Bob contemplates the incredible WASTE of HRC on the Democrats. He can't get Hillary of his mind. Most nights, Uncle Bob puts himself to sleep with fantasies of Hillary running through a field of goldenrod, wearing a red gauzy dress, straight into the muscled arms of the sultry Steve Forbes... This is what he believes.

IV. A Change of Subject - The Fish Diet

My formative years were spent in Bakersfield, one of the meanest little cities nestled in the nation's fruit basket. It's not a picturesque meanness, like in the South; it's not an ironic, self-aggrandizing meanness like you find in New York. It's just a cold flat meanness lying atop the city like an enormous dead whitefish. People lift their faces to chew on its underbelly everyday.

V. In San Francisco, the Fish Wear Pearls

The Nation reports that my favourite Bank in America (the "MotherBank") is, along with a few other San Francisco-based megalovely corporations, happily availing themselves of California's prison labor. Just another "joint venture" project that benefits everyone.

VI. Life Cycle of the Fish

Over the last few years, MotherBank has laid off thousands of tellers, putting them out of a job, which, in California of late, is not so different than putting them directly on the street. What can Tammy Teller find on the street? Not too much, although if she's reeeeeeally lucky she might run into one of San Francisco's finest. The National Law Center on Homelessness & Poverty has added San Francisco (along with a few other California cities) to its list of "meanest streets" (where homeless people are most harassed by law enforcement). Where's a harassed homeless ex-teller to go? Probably straight to jail. But that's ok, because MotherBank will hire her right back, at 20 cents on the dollar.

It is no surprise that MotherBank uses prison labor to assemble the endless reams of printed paper it produces on a yearly basis. I find it rather surprising that being subjected to the MotherBank's endless, blithering, bureaucratic babble isn't considered cruel and unusual punishment. Perhaps this job could be reserved for those inmates on deathrow. They could read it aloud while they're waiting, sort of a "Dead Man Squawking" effect. The end would be such bliss...

VII. Who's Going to Fry this Fish?

Willie? or Won't he?