Americans Unsure Who is Evil in Haiti

ll over the United States the average viewer is being treated to the site of black people running through the streets, burning flags, and throwing shrapnel as well as shooting guns, in the midst of full-blown rebellion. Unfortunately, this isn't in America, it's in Haiti, and Americans everywhere nervously wonder: Who exactly is the bad guy and whose side am I supposed to be on?

It's a fair question, as the White House has yet to make an announcement on where they stand on the Haiti situation, pending a review of the situation by a panel heading south, which should have an answer this coming week. Of course, angry black people are something the Bush administration traditionally stands against, and this is no exception; but the real question for them is, can President Jean-Bertrand Aristide keep the population down and the bucks flowing to America for a few more terms? Or is it time to scrap him and install a new puppet government?

That's right, the p-word: Puppet. The unofficial word is a claymation Gumby would have more spine for standing up to the U.S. than Aristide. Now the U.S. seeks damage control as Aristide finds himself the victim of a coup yet again. The wonderful "liberal" administration of Bill Clinton helped put Aristide back in power after his earlier ousting in 1994, and he was certainly a good lapdog after that. Clinton defended the action as restoring the rightfully-elected Haitian president to power, but nobody in the country bothered asking how he was elected or by whom. In recent years Haitian voter turnout has peaked at about 5%—even for Americans, that's pretty low turnout.

For those Americans with your average high school education, Haiti may seem like a mystery. It is one of Caribbean island nations not communist and therefore of little interest to U.S. diplomats. It is populated almost entirely by black people, but it's not the one Bob Marley is from, and it's not a popular resort. It suffers from extreme poverty and high occurrences of AIDS and HIV, and the last time you saw it on TV may have been when a boatload of refugees were drowning in an effort to reach the continental United States, unless they were being turned back by U.S. coast guard.

There are positive things about Haiti, though, like its friendliness to American investors. When it's not in the midst of revolution, which is admittedly quite often, Haiti is the poorest country in the Western hemisphere with a per capita income of $250; less than half of its population is literate and 80% of its people live in poverty, which means low, low wages for investors. The U.S.-friendly puppet government, put in place and held there by military force, means no minimum wage and bizarre laws that lower tariffs on imports and punish exports—a country with a high yield of agricultural products can't even produce rice for its own people, since it is cheaper to import it from American agricultural concerns, thanks to commerce legislation.

For the Bush administration, it's obviously good business to enforce "trickle down" economics and protect investments there by reinstalling a U.S.-friendly government by whatever means possible, even militarily, but since it's an election year and the American people are already getting a little sour about our efforts to protect business concerns in the Middle East, the stance our country is going to take on recent Haitian uprisings isn't quite square yet. But if it can be done without lowering anyone's approval rating, you can bet Haitian rebels and their underclass associates, maybe even Aristide himself, will soon join the Octagon of Evil, or whatever shape evil's taking these days.

Cheney Vows to Stay Course: Will Shoot Hunting Partner Again

Mardi Gras, Gonorrhea to Return to New Orleans

Aides Urge Bush to Stop Referring to Iraqi Majority as “Shits”

Sheryl Crow Takes Cancer in Lance Armstrong Split

Uproar has swept over me, good people. You want to know why? You want to know WHY? I can't hear you! That's better.

This morning, my good wife of thirty years, Arvelyn, suggested maybe it's time we possibly consider getting a dog if that's okay with me. Why, I was truncheoned! How dare she bring a new family member into our little fold without consulting me!

Sure, we've had discussions like this before: parakeets, goldfish, rats that don't live in the walls. There was one time Arvelyn was pretty adamant about getting a cock, and I never thought I'd wear her down. But eventually logic prevailed and with the price of a chicken coop and feed continually skyrocketing, she realized it was just a fantasy.

And now this dog thing rears its ugly cold-nosed head. From the sheer force of her words—"I think I'd like a dog, Rokwell,"—I don't think she'll be swayed. It may even be pointless trying. But even if we end up getting the dog, I don't like the way she's carried out this campaign of propaganda and brute force.

In the past we've sat down at the family table for these sort of discussions—I in my great big chair, Arvelyn in her slightly smaller chair, Makeshift, our cat, in his tiny chair that's just right. And we've talked about this like adults, at least Arvelyn and I have, Makeshift sometimes just licks his butt in quiet dissention. But these rough and tumble guerrilla tactics don't sit very well on the head of Rokwell T. Finger.

I dread the thought of it now: playing fetch, drinking out of the toilet, dropping feces left and right—all of that will have to stop once I assume the responsibility of dog ownership. Not to mention the miniature birthday parties with the dog wearing a tiny tux and I have to eat whatever kind of cake he chooses, even if it's chocolate swirl or marble—I will not have it, good people. Again—I. Will. Not. Have. It.

I think in the meantime I will put an ad in the paper, to stall Arvelyn's dog search. She will be convinced I'm all for it, but the ad will have such high expectations that no dog could possibly live up to it. A sample would read:

"WANTED: Empowered, professional-minded canine with own dish. Must be able to fetch, cartwheel, drive large-engine truck, shake, converse at length on the works of Victor Hugo, proficient in MS Word, Excel, Lotus, Quark X-Press. Starting salary of belly-scratchin' and Kibbles 'N' Bits 'N' Bits 'N' Bits. Must read ad and respond in person. No Schitzus."

Ha! I'd like to see the dog who could fit that bill.

And if one does give us a call… God help us all.

º Last Column: People Think I'm Johnny Carson
º more columns

I don't have a lot of time, as I recently found out I am dying. I don't know when, how long I've got left, or the circumstances under which I go, but as you can understand, it's still quite a shock. Let's jump on this pony and ride to victory.

I've recently heard the greatest invention of all time is the wheel. Did I ever get a thanks? No. It just goes to show you, never talk loudly about your ideas in bars.

The other day, for the first time, I had popcorn shrimp. Have you seen this stuff? It's not popcorn. And it's not shrimp. Only, it is shrimp, I suppose. But it's not popcorn. That's all I'm saying.

Hollywood has promised us another Daddy Day Care. Save your lies, charlatans. I'm still waiting for the Buckaroo Banzai sequel I never got.

You know what I hate? Rastafarians.

Whatever happened to Regis Philbin? You hear nothing about him anymore. It's like they erased all memory of him from existence, like someone went back in time and farted on a rare flower or something, and poof! But I remember. And I'll never forget.

Everyone knows the Second Law of Thermodynamics. But they all snicker when I ask them to explain it to me. I don't think that's right.

If you watch The Bachelor does that make you gay? A friend wants to know.

It's when I first wake up in the morning and I feel the cold sweat on my face, the shudder in my chest, and I feel like I can't move my neck and can only stare at the ceiling—like I'm waiting, merely waiting for the end. It's those moments I feel closest to knowing insanity. But then, I have a cup of instant coffee, and everything gets better.

I just read some of this bathroom wall art—does anyone edit that stuff? The spelling is terrible. Nice gig, if you can get it.

Judge Judy has gotten way too sassy for her britches. It's high time someone in the administration step in. There's got to be some kind of constitutional clause to cover this kind of thing.

On The Jeffersons, everybody loved Bentley most. Everybody. You think the network would have played that up, but no. Pure gold, slipped right through their fingers.

I have heard before if you put peanut butter on your private parts, your dog will lick it off. Well, I can't speak for all breeds, but pit bulls didn't make for the kind of experience I envisioned.

Isn't it like 1939 all over again these days? Sure, it's different, but you know what I mean.

I lost a matchbook to a hip club back in 1965, and sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, I wonder whatever happened to that matchbook. I hope it's doing someone some good, and some day I can sneak behind their house and set their bushes on fire. Just as a distraction. To get it back.

I love British television, and I hope to buy one some day. But I hear they don't work with our power outlets. Which is just plain wrong.

I believe we're done here. I'll see you again.

º Last Column: First Served
º more columns