Since the head of Al-Qaida is now in the Big Cosmic Aquarium, there’s an intriguing question making television’s talking head circuit: If the United States had more than a reasonable suspicion that a terrorist had pertinent information about an impending attack on this country, should we be able to legally torture him or her to find out the details?
I suppose this begs the premise that we already employ people who are adept at extracting information by whatever means necessary.
I wouldn’t presume to be judgmental. But how does one get into the field of Standby Federal Torturer?
“Well. I never did well in high school, then my girlfriend got pregnant and I kind of needed the job…”
Federal Torturer.
Is this one of those new hot jobs of the future? Would this be a full-time position? With medical and dental? I bet when you’re in the dentist’s chair, you eye his tools with a calm respect.
“Say. Just to make conversation, just where could a guy buy one of those little curved stainless steel probes and a low-speed drill?” the Inquisitor might innocently ask.
Home Depot, of course.
If this Washington torture thing takes off, you know Obama-ized unionization is not far behind, along with the obligatory company newsletter no one reads.
If I’m the editor of The Potomac Eyescrews & Boiling Oil Employees Monthly, I’d leave out the participles.
Mwa ha. Mwa ha ha.
One of the key words in this debate seems to be: “Legally.” Can we torture someone, “Legally.” Being civilized, we say it so politely, as if we’re asking: “Can I roll-over that IRA if I change jobs?”
“May I run someone’s tootsies through a sausage grinder, only, of course, to extract some information?”
Did a congressman slip in some small rider on a long-forgotten budget making it legal to strap a contrary and yammering bearded Bolshevik, Taliban or Anabaptist to the rack and expand, if not his boundaries, his awareness?
Pain enlivens.
They must have snuck it in. I can’t imagine even Strom Thurmond clearing his throat and doing his patented Warner Brothers cartoon imitation of Foghorn Leghorn:
“I say I said I say I’d like to introduce before my august I say my august colleagues here The Federal I say the Federal Spanish Inquisition Act.”
Sounds hauntingly like an X-rated video.
I have a question. Outside of a few congressional expense accounts, are we currently spending my tax dollars on Cat-O-9-Tails, leather skullcaps and genital cuffs and/or the recruitment of someone outside the blessings of the federal government who would otherwise be Hannibal Lecter?
Is that where the phrase, “Majority Whip” originates?
I’ve watched movies where they bring out the big syringe and plunge it into a Big Gulp bottle labeled: “TRUTH SERUM.” The torturer slowly moves the needle toward the victim. The victim writhes and says:
“Oh no! No! No! You mustn’t!”
And the person with all the queries smiles and replies: “Oh yes! Yes! Yes! Oh yes!”
I’ve been in stab-&-kiss relationships like that. Of course, it was the ’70s and who is to say torture is a bad thing? So many regular household items have been invented in the service of war — canned food, refrigeration, the quintuple purchase order. Will we see, in the near future, truth serum being sold over the counter to the general public?
I’d bet it’d sell like Advil.
Can you imagine substituting truth serum for a loved one’s cough syrup, crossing your legs, sitting back with a sanguine smile and waiting for the murky liquid to kick in?
“So. Honey. What did you do at that business convention last week. Don’t spare a single excruciating detail.”
Maybe truth serum will find a secondary use. Zyban was originally an anti-depressant until they found it was a dandy way to stop smoking.
Rogaine started out as high blood pressure medicine until scientists almost accidentally discovered: “Hey. This stuff will grow hair on the roof of a 1963 Plymouth Volare!”
Who knows. Maybe truth serum has another use. Perhaps it’s a calming laxative. It works, at least, as metaphor. In honor of all our tireless federal turnscrews and rack monitors, we could call it, “Cripesmyspleen™.”
At the very least, Cripesmyspleen™ could cure shyness.
As a culture, are we ready for Cripesmyspleen™? It’s a disarming thought — a completely honest society. Not being to dearly hold onto our small fibs, white lies and abhorrent secret schizophrenia, would we explode — little skull fragments, fine mists of blood, brain matter and impositions firmly clutched for 1,000 years fleeing, slow motion, toward the purging rays of the sun?
How do you torture someone?
That sentence brings a large smile to my face.
I used to confound my baby sibling-like substance Hondo when he was in junior high by repeating exactly what he was saying while he was saying it. Drove him nuts. Today, he’s in show business.
Do you know what grates on me, my own personal hell? When someone — usually a family member or co-worker — repeats the phrase, over and over and over again: “I know you are, but what am I?” to whatever I may utter.
“Some of us are doing sushi for lunch. Would you like to join us?”
“I know you are. But what am I?”
“There’s a call for you on Line 6.”
“I know you are. But what am I?”
“Stop that. It’s out of context and doesn’t even make sense.”
“I know you are. But what am I?”
I’ve never liked that.
Still. I don’t think that mantra alone would be enough to make me crack and blurt out where a fleet of Taliban rubber dinghies was anchored off the Eastern seaboard.
To expunge serious information, one requires a bit more dedication to the heinous.
The African warlord Shaka Zulu once tied the mother of one of his many enemies in a hut with a starving hyena. Her only defense was to kick at the hungry, laughing beast and try to keep awake, which she did for about the first day. Then, she’d doze off for a moment and that’s when the scavenger would liberate a nip of flesh here, a finger there. Her screams were so horrendously soul-jarring, Shaka’s hardened generals begged him to spare her the torture. He did. He killed her. And Shaka didn’t even particularly want to know anything.
Being eaten alive by a big stinky hyena?
Spilling the beans?
I’d sing like Pavarotti.
We live in interesting times, beset upon by drooling malcontents wide-eyed in caves and shadows, eager to shed their own lives just at the chance of taking some of us with them. If I had a magic button to press, that would rid them all in one satisfying and poetic explosion, I’d be sorely tempted.
But 72 hours of a serious face peel? Pliers to the toes? Twelve-volt battery attached to where the moon don’t shine? Making them watch “Baywatch” until their brains are mush, the math of which works out to be about 1.3 episodes?
I wonder if someday someone from the Federal Torturers Local No. 378 would move next door to me?
“Bob. Welcome to the neighborhood. So. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m in communications.”
Mwa ha ha. Mwa ha.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not necessarily against torture. I just think it should be kept where in belongs: In the home and work place. And besides, it seems like such a redundancy. Washington already has so many government agencies that make us clutch our skulls and scream, so why add another?
On the other hand, I bet with Obama’s close ties to show business, this new government arm would have great uniforms.
John Boston has earned 119 major awards for writing stuff. Besides The Mighty West Ranch Beacon, his work appears in the prestigious thebostonreport.net just about every darn day. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon. Read Boston’s daily blog, his Daily English Muffins, the Adventures of Job Hunter and more of John Boston’s award-winning commentary on thebostonreport.net