President No-show

It seems like our president, Dubya the Dumb, is perfecting the art of not showing up when times get tough. First, it was when he was supposed to be doing National Guard duty during the Vietnam War. Now it’s on occasions like when the Chinook helicopter was shot down in Iraq, killing 15 Americans, and Boy George didn’t even come to the door of his Crawford ranch to say one word about it, since he was no doubt hiding under his bed in his pajamas. Bring ’em on, Mommy!

To date, Georgie Boy has not attended the funeral of any American soldiers killed in action, unlike Presidents Ronnie Rayguns, Poppy Bush, and Billary. Perhaps the White House is afraid to be linked to the idea that its stupidity, arrogance, and utter disregard for our bravest kids have cost more than 150 lives since President Flight-suit and his paunchy, poncey pig-boy Ra(t)sputin, Karl Rove, cooked up their "Mission Accomplished" stunt. He’s ready for his close-up now, Mr. DeMille.

Fortunately, Time magazine wasn’t afraid this week to confront the realities of what’s happening to our soldiers in the shooting gallery of Iraq, where they are literally being torn limb from limb. Here’s an excerpt from Mark Thompson’s article:

For several seconds after the rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) drilled through the back of their armored M113 "battle taxi," the soldiers inside, mainlining adrenaline, continued firing. Then they started screaming. "It blew my leg clean off," says Private First Class Tristan Wyatt, who was standing at the rear of the armored personnel carrier (APC), unloading an M-240 machine gun at a dozen or more Iraqis who had ambushed them minutes before. He was the first to be hit. The RPG then passed through Sergeant Erick Castro’s hip, spinning him violently to the floor. His left leg was still attached — but barely. "I picked up my leg and put it on the bench," he says, "and lay down next to it." Finally, the RPG shredded Sergeant Mike Meinen’s right leg. "It was pretty much torn off," he says. "There was just some meat and tendons holding it on . . . As troops on the two other APCs continued firing, the lone medic among the 15 soldiers on the patrol climbed up the back ramp into the compartment. " ‘Holy s___!’ was the first thing out of his mouth, and it looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his head," Wyatt remembers. "That’s kind of disheartening when he's talking about you."

Well, you don’t have to worry about Dubya, Big Time, Rummy, or Condee talking about you, Tristan, because to them you don’t exist. You’re just another kid whose life has been turned into a nightmare, if not ended, because of their lies, egos, and incompetence. Meanwhile, Boy George sits at home at his ranch, no doubt watching the Dallas Cowboys game, when 15 Americans get slaughtered. Have a pretzel, Mr. President, it’s on P&J.

WOULD YOU LIKE FRIES WITH THAT?

Isn’t it heartening to see disgraced former governor Ed "Gerber Baby" DiPrete groveling to try to retrieve his pension? Hey, Gerb, instead of wasting the Supreme Court’s time, why don’t you do some Dumpster-diving at Walt’s Roast Beef? Phillipe and Jorge understand you can often find envelopes with $10,000 lying around in there.

While the Gerber Baby sinks to levels of pathos that exceed even the old Queen for a Day TV shows, even more pathetic is his wife, Pat. (An aside here. If you don’t remember Queen for a Day — no, it wasn’t about Regis Philbin — they had women come on and tell about the horror that their life had become, and then the audience would vote for the most tragic character. Hmm, sounds like a presidential election. But the best part was invariably when the winner, who was on food stamps and had 10 kids living in a fifth-floor walk-up in the South Bronx, would get her prize — a Shetland Pony!)

But we digress. Back to Pat. Ms. Gerb claims her convict hubby’s pension is her sole means of support, and therefore she wants to lay claim to it. Forgive us for a second, Pat, but isn’t a) your wonderful hubby still capable of holding a job (keep Walt’s in mind, Eddie)?And b) don’t you have a developer son named Dennis who, while implicated in your husband’s scams, is now supposedly a contributing member of society? (Many still believe Daddy took the fall for both himself and Dennis, thus aiding his son.) Maybe if the Gerb’s memory of the events that landed him in the can cleared up even more, he might use that recollection to remind and inspire his young charge to take care of his aging parents. What ho, Dennis?

And in a typical Vo Dilun moment, isn’t it nice that two of the Supremes, Maureen McKenna Goldberg, and Bob Flanders are recusing themselves from deciding the case? Maureen because her hubby, peripatetic lobbyist and lawyer Bob, is representing the Gerb, and Flanders, since he used to be legal counsel to DiPrete when the Gerb was governor. (Bob, in the wake of Brown’s 55-44 win over Yale last weekend at the Yale Bowl, P&J still remember seeing you set the stadium’s record for a TD run of 95 yards from scrimmage while Brown was getting thrashed. God, we love this state!)

At any rate, at least with a job where you have to wear a cap no one will be able to make fun of your hairdo, right Gerb? Super-size that for you?

ABOVE THE LAW

"Thank God for ethics in legal community!" thundered no one when House Speaker Bill Murphy declared he would not question Gordon Fox, his right-hand guy, about the latter’s possible conflict of interest in the GTECH vote. This is the matter for which young Gordie is now stretched out over at the Ethics Commission by Patricia Morgan of the state GOP and Operation Clean Government.

"I did not ask him that and I would not ask any member of the Rhode Island bar — or any other bar — to divulge any attorney-client privileged information. I simply would not do that," Murphy told the fetching Kathy "Faster, Pussycat, Kill, Kill" Gregg of the Urinal.

Of course, Phillipe and Jorge know that among the lawyers at Halitosis Hall, not to mention those hanging out at any number of the bars in the Ocean State to which Mr. Speaker was doubtless referring (the Hot Club does come to mind), there would never be an instance of them sharing any client-attorney information, especially if it were to lead to personal financial gain. God forbid. P&J are not lawyers — although we would like to play them on TV if we could borrow Abrams and Verri’s trenchcoats and the make-up person who caulks Brian Cunha’s face. We can nonetheless assure our reading public that Mr. Murphy’s stance is epitome of the towering degree of discretion and high standards that have marked the General Assembly and some in Rhode Island’s legal community for decades. We would say so even if he didn’t have a certain part of our anatomies currently in the middle of a rather snug vice grip.

Selah.

WELL DONE

P&J were honored to have been asked to emcee the auction held last Saturday evening in the roomy basement of VMAArts &Cultural Center to benefit the vitally important work of the Sexual Assault & Trauma Resource Center of Rhode Island. We don’t have a list of the folks who planned this 30th anniversary bash, but it was an unalloyed success. We do know that one of the behind-the-scenes planners was veteran TV reporter Robin Costello and, of course, those two indefatigable champions of the battle against violence against women and children, Deb DeBare and Peg Langhammer.

Hundreds of folks came out in support, but at one point, P&J were convinced that every third person in the room who came up to greet us was a member of Pawtucket’s famous Lynch family. Patriarch Dennis was in attendance, as well as AG Patrick and Democratic Party ramrod Bill, and a brace of sisters. That gun-slinging consultant, Guy Dufault, was on hand, making sure that Pawtucket was more than amply represented. (Indeed, Guy played Little League in Pawtucket with Jorge back in the Paleolithic Era.) It was also great to see John Martin, former radio talker and Other Paper scribe, and his fabulous wife, Faye, who covers the society news for the BeloJo.

Another Casa Diablo regular, Julie Pell, was also represented. Julie’s always been a rather modest and low-key type but she recently purchased what she describes as "the car of my dreams," a fact that has emboldened her to hurtle about Aquidneck Island at breakneck speeds. Be careful, Julie.

WJAR head ramrod Lisa Churchville was also in attendance and, besides assuring political reporter Bill Rappleye that "your job is secure," she offered an interesting theory on the connection between weight loss and relationship woes. Ms. Churchville has observed that frequently, when people of a certain middle age drop a noticeable amount of weight, divorce court is frequently just around the corner. Although at this stage the Churchville "losing weight = splitsville" theory is only supported by anecdotal evidence, we urge the NBC-10 boss to sic Channel 10 health reporter Barbara Morse on gathering more data to see what shakes loose.

Congratulations to everyone and continued success in raising the consciousness of Vo Dilunduhs about the scourge of violence.

IN SUPPORT OF BAD PRESIDENTIAL MOVIES

Your superior correspondents were deeply disappointed that CBS threw in the towel on presenting their sure-to-be-horrible Reagan movie. Timing is everything, and the fact that the former president is still alive really rings the old bad taste bell. Which is precisely why we were so anxious to see the film.

All the whining conservatives who mounted a successful campaign to get the movie shelved seem to have forgotten that virtually all movies dealing with historical figures are ridiculous cartoons. We would have liked to have seen it just to catch the James Brolin impersonation. One bad actor doing another bad actor is always a thrill at Casa Diablo. We would also like to see films like Gerald Ford: Stumblin’ ’Round the Rose Garden, Bill Clinton: Secrets of the Oral Office, and Daddy Bush: A Pork Rind for Your Thoughts.

Of course, considering today’s superior leanings in the entertainment industry, we have no doubt that the most promising presidential bio-pic project would be James Buchanan: When Aunt Fancy Met Uncle Nancy.

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