Harry Belafonte: Colin Powell a "Tallyman, Tally Me Bananas"

he radio waves have become a hotbed of political gaffs and slander lately, demeaning the nature of civil discussion and making it impossible to hear "Safety Dance" like you could before. The latest was discovered by this reporter when he woke up at the house of a friend, possibly of the other sex, and heard famed singer Harry Belafonte continuing his attack on Secretary of State Colin Powell.

Powell, who had been referred to by Belafonte only Wednesday on a San Diego radio show as a "house slave" for the Bush administration, was attacked again in a musical tirade in which the Desert Storm veteran was likened to a "tallyman," always come to tally Belafonte's bananas.

Despite the racially-infused charges and slander involved, Powell apparently didn't feel the accusations were personal attacks. State Department spokesperson Richard Boucher, when told of Belafonte's remarks by this reporter, responded, "I think you misunderstand entirely."

Again, this reporter repeated the statements, providing claps and trying to hit the same notes as Belafonte in his radio assault. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, and straw hat apparently did not capture the mood for the spokesperson either.

"It's possible that those remarks have been completely taken out of context," Boucher said. "Who do you work for again?"

Upon being escorted out of the building by burly dark-suited men, this reporter could not get his sunglasses and straw hat back, and is considering lodging a complaint.

Despite the relaxed reception at the State Department, who are undoubtedly hoping the inflammatory remarks will go away quietly, Belafonte's charges are serious. Possibly the most cutting remark was Belafonte's comparison of Powell to a black tarantula hiding in the banana bunches as he lifted six-foot, seven-foot, eight-foot bunch into the boat.

Local DJ and the coolest guy this reporter knows Vic Sandwich had insightful comments on the nature of the political discussion.

"Obviously, if Belafonte feels that Powell is being unfair in his tallying of the bananas, he's going to be pretty upset with him and lobby some unfair charges," Sandwich said, sitting in a big chair. "Was it fair to call Powell a black spider in the Bush administration? Maybe not. But when you're talking banana-pricing politics, people pull no punches."

When given the suggestion that Belafonte might be speaking figuratively, Sandwich made a raspberry.

"Don't be so naïve, Boner. Calling Powell a house slave might be a metaphor, but we're talking real banana boats and 8-foot bunches here. My question is, if Powell is such a good guy and a man of the people, why won't he let Belafonte go home? Daylight come already, and I'm sure he's got shit to do."

In a related note of slander, this reporter was severely maligned when showing the first draft of this story around the commune offices.

"It's the worst thing I've ever seen and you're going to get us sued," slandered bookwormish reporter Ramrod Hurley. "And if you leave my name in the story like that, you're going to regret it. I know where you park your car and your desk is unguarded most of the day."

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Once upon a time
Or so goes the line
I heard tell a notion
Of a gold magic potion
Its power mysterious,
A bouquet quite delirious
It filled all who drink
With the charm of a king
The strength of ten oxen
For lifting or boxing,
The smell of a flower
And ten times the power,
Eyes that would dazzle
And a wit that would frazzle
The smartest of Greeks,
Send them crying for weeks.

It came in a vial
Gold like a sun's smile,
And gave off an odor
More than peculiar
And all who came near
Fled quickly in fear
And assumed without stirring
The vial contained urine

One day was a man
Who wandered this land
With no sense of smell
And then no way to tell
What lurked in the beaker
That lay near his sneakers
Despite better judgment,
He drank deeply of it,
And found all the gifts
From the previous list
Bestowed upon him
Much to his chagrin

Yet no one believed
And quickly took leave
Despite all his pleas
They said he drank pee

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What's shakin', Kevin Bacon?

Things are okay here. I'm still adjusting to living in New York and especially working at the commune. It's a perplexing place. I’ve been here a few weeks already and so far the only person who's spoken to me is Omar Bricks. I nodded to him in the hall and he convulsed like he's just stepped on a power line and said:

"-bzzzzrrt- Ah, sorry about that. Freakin' security robots! They don't understand anything short of a pizza wheel to the neck."

After that I'm not sure if I'm upset about not hearing from the rest of the staff. Not that a little common concern wouldn't be nice, you know? So, how was your bus ride? Four wheels? Eight? Did you get a mid-ride meal or just peanuts? Here's to hoping your ears popped okay. The standard stuff.

One thing I do know for sure, the commune employee directory is hopelessly obsolete. Apparently they change employees like a whale inhaling plankton, and I think the employee list includes everyone who walks in the doors or is spotted within 100 yards of the building by the guy up on the roof with the binoculars. I'm not kidding, Employee #7710 is listed as "Suspicious Man with Jeri Curl". It's nuts.

And Christ in a cameo, the commune sends us emails about everything! Any time someone retires or transfers or quits or contemplates taking a break to use the bathroom, I get an email about it. I get all excited thinking it's an email from someone nice and instead it's a notice that Bramblethorpe Titdonkey has been promoted to Salad Bar Manager. Do I look like I give a shit? Should I wear a different shirt?

Ah, alas, I must persevere.

Mainly I'm just working on settling in. I just talked to my new auto insurance guy, and he kept saying he would drop my rates considerably if I drove a Hummer. Or something like that. Something about a hummer.

What else? Didn't have time to make a lunch today, so I stole a can of honey-roasted peanuts from the bank to snack on. I just made a really bizarre sound dislodging one from my throat and suddenly some crazy bastard was in here in a duck-hunting hat. I need to hurry up and eat the rest of this can before I choke to death or get shot.

Speaking of the bank, one thing I've discovered recently: If anyone gives you any shit while you're there, just start bleeding everywhere and they'll give you anything you want just to get you out of there. Nobody wants any freaky hemophiliacs running amok in their bank. It's like an unwritten rule or something.

I guess I'd better get back to this paper airplane prototype I've been working on, since this column is going nowhere fast. I've got some flaps torn into the wings so I think it's going to fly pretty sharp. Should put somebody's eye out for sure. Sounds like a... hey, why is a "Barrel of Monkeys" supposed to be so much fun? Who's word are we taking on that? More so than say, a Bathtub of Lizards or a Closet of Weasels... or a Trunk of Pigs? I really wonder.

Can you believe masturbate.com isn't in my spellchecker? What is this, the stone age?

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