Former CIA Director Doesn’t Know Sports

h, baby, there’s being a girl and then there’s being a girl—know what I’m saying? Take as an example former CIA Director George Tenet, the man who complains in his new book At the Center of the Storm that he became a poster boy for the fuck-up in Iraq and that his comment "It’s a Slam Dunk, Mr. President," was used as grounds for the Iraqi invasion and taken out of context. Now it turns out that, according to Tenet’s new book, the problem is trying to use sports terminology in the workplace without knowing shit about sports.

Like a lot of women out there, this reporter only watches sports for the unspoken erotic tension between the players and the frequent male touching. But honey, at least I watch. Which leaves straight boys like George Tenet trying to fumble (another sports term) around the office to describe international situations in a language the president can understand. If he don’t know sports and the president don’t know international politics, they might as well be speaking Swahili and German to each other, sweetie.

In Tenet’s new book, the freshest alibi that testifies he’s someone else who didn’t do shit to cause the unpopular war in Iraq, the former CIA Director tells how he responded to the president’s question about the intelligence that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction (WMD is so 2003 now), to which Tenet replied with the damned expression "Slam Dunk." But Tenet says the case against him is not so clear.

"The president likes to receive all of his briefings in language that the public can understand," Tenet wrote of his former boss and frequent sly critic. "This makes it easier for the razor-sharp mind of President Bush to prepare information for his press conferences—with so many things on his plate like writing a balanced budget, researching the privatization of health care, and his late-night situation meetings, sports terminology can get the point home to the American people without the president complicating the matter with the convoluted jargon familiar to President Bush, but strange to our ears.

"In this matter, I incorrectly clarified the intelligence case for Iraq’s possession of weapons of mass destruction as a ’Slam Dunk.’ I have very rarely ever seen a football game, so using this terminology was my mistake. I should have gone with ’home run,’ which is at least familiar to me because of dating slang. I did not mean that the ball was knocked out of the park. I meant that that thing happens where—what’s the term for when a player pretends to throw the ball, but you’re not sure he did, and any player could have or not have the ball? A ’clusterfuck,’ maybe? Whatever that thing is, that’s what I meant to say. Boy, I must have really messed up my sports lingo, though."

Tenet’s book further criticizes politicians out there, including the White House, for making him the scapegoat for the war because of the "Slam Dunk" comment. When the intelligence for Iraq was revealed as faulty, detractors pointed to Tenet as the face for the flawed intelligence system and put the burden on him and his people for a war that many accusers say was initiated only by the president’s interests. Tenet goes on to describe the process as "just plain mean."

Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice was uncharacteristically frank in her response to Tenet’s charges in her response with Wolf Blitzer on CNN Sunday.

"George screwed the pooch and he knows it," said Rice. "That’s not a sports term, so maybe I won’t have to translate it for him. We should send him to the penalty box for his knocking us over it all, but he wouldn’t know where the fuck it is anyway."

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In a tree by the beach
lived a lecherous leech
named Coco Hobari McSteve.

McSteve believed
that a spot on his sleeve
held the secret the universe had pondered.

So anyone who wandered
by the tree or who squandered
a glance elsewhere was reminded.

That anyone who was blinded
certainly wouldn't have minded
if it was done by that beautiful spot.

He said it a little
and he said it a lot
He told when it was cold
and he told when it was hot
But very few listened
and even fewer cared
that the spot looked a lot
like a duck that was scared.

McSteve thought this important,
kind of scarily so
and if you walked by the ocean
he would surely let you know.
He had all kinds of stories,
two legends and a myth
that explained the deeper meaning
of the stigmata he lived with.

I traveled from a far-off land
West of Can and east of Hat
to find Coco McSteve
and the tree where he lived at.
I had heard the stories of this spot
and the enlightenment it brought
but when I finally spied it
I found that it did not.

I climbed up in that creaky tree
and crawled out on my knees.
And when I glanced that hallowed spot I
realized it was cheese.
Some kind of spray-can cheese
a fleck, borne of untidy eating.
And when I told McSteve my thoughts
he thought that I was cheating.
But with a lick and then a shrug
there was no doubt—he knew.
And with no further ado
he went on to contemplate his amazing shoe.

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The most hilarious thing happened the other day, faithful readers.

As is per usual, I was on the phone to odor the special deodorant I use from Quebec. Anyone familiar with me knows I tire of the French fairly quick, and the only thing that irritates me worse is the French-Canadians. A people so wishy-washy about their country of origin shouldn't be allowed independence; I've said it and I stand by it. But the story centers more appropriately around my using a fake voice for this order. Sometimes I enjoy gagging on the French, using a fake voice on a lark and so on.

Well, do you know what this French guy said when I called in my fake voice?

"Johnny Carson! We're happy to service you!"

Keep in mind I never use fake names; that's just plain unfair. But this French-Canadian fellow assumed I was Johnny Carson JUST BY THE SOUND OF MY VOICE. I can't tell you what a heady accomplishment this was. Already my mind was racing on how to take advantage of this. But I had to be sure it wasn't a joke being played on yours truly.

To test, I approached my wife of thirty years, Arvelyn, from behind while she was gardening, cleared my throat, and announced, in my Carson-sounding voice, "I'm looking for Ed McMahon."

Well, by gum, Arvelyn spun around with a furor, calling out, "Mr. Carson!" She was a little disappointed to see only her loyal non-Johnny Carson husband there, but once I explained this unique gift I had and the possibilities now open to us, her eyes lit up with as much opportunity as mine.

My first thought was to call NBC and tell them I wanted my old job back—surely they'd bounce the thick-chinned yokel running the show now if JOHNNY CARSON said over the phone he wanted  his show back! But my next thought was that more than likely NBC had caller I.D. now and would know this was Rok Finger playing a shenanigan. I don't know if there are legal repercussions for getting Jay Leno fired, but I decided to not find out.

Unfortunately, every opportunity to garner a position as a celebrity lookalike fell through since it's genuinely required you look AND sound like the celebrity you favor. And while Johnny Carson and I may sound like twin brothers joined at the larynx, he is distinguished and dapper in a midwestern sort of way, while I am hideous and troll-like.

So currently we are waiting for a callback from a producer we have called about a Johnny Carson radio show. Carson himself is reportedly a big fan of television, so we stake the likelihood is that he will not be listening to the radio much. Therefore I will be free to run my radio show without fear of repercussions. I have already called Joan Embry and Don Rickles and both are excited to be doing "The Carson Radio Show." I'll keep you informed of possible air dates, though I must impress upon you commune readers to NOT TELL Don Rickles or Joan Embry I'm not Johnny Carson. During the show itself I'll release a small belch and laugh, and that will be our little secret. Just between yourselves and I.

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