Return to Oscar’s Island
Published March 2003
Oscar bin Laden: Archives and discussion at https://www.greatsociety.org/forums/index.php?topic=1241.0
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It all began with a song.
Rita Sullivan was on a worn table at the Royal Mile, reminding me why it was
a bad idea to show up on Sea Chanting night. But there was nothing bad
about Rita. She was one of those six foot brunettes with long, spirally
hair and the boyish figure that works well with black jeans and boots. What
she was doing with a bunch of shifty-eyed, overweight sea chanters was
beyond me.
What is sea chanting? Well, I’m sure there’s more to it, but it’s really
just that yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum stuff. What’s disturbing is that
there’s a very large and dedicated sea chanting community in suburban
Washington. The ranks of strange, dodgy, serial killer suspects are
balanced out by a strange group of stunningly attractive women who appear at
sea chants with instruments, sheets of music and strong and
beautiful voices. The Royal Mile pub, near my house, is HQ for the local
sea chanter society. Once a month, it’s standing room only for four hours
while chanters take to the tables and sing about piracy on the high seas,
being trapped in calm waters and extol the virtues of a sailor’s life.
It is, of course, abundantly obvious that most of these folks have never been near
an ocean-going vessel in their lives. Or a vagina.
Why was I here? When Texas Billionaire Oscar bin Laden calls and says “I’ve got an itch” I’ve discovered that it’s safer to be standing next to him instead of, say, riding any form of public transportation. He burst through the doors as soon as Rita Sullivan began an odd mix of a traditional sea chant and early 80’s Kate Bush headed to the table that I had been holding down since earlier in the afternoon. I was tipped deeply into my cups, but I put on my best face when Oscar ordered a ginger ale, crossed his hands on the table and grinned darkly.
“Relationships.” He said when Rita finished her sea chant. The applause washed up and over us like, well, the sea.
“Uh-huh?”
The waitress set a glass of ginger ale in front of him, glanced in my direction when Oscar handed her one of those stupid Taliban dollars that comprise 60% of his fortune, then moved off towards the kitchen where most of the staff had barricaded themselves.
Oscar continued. “Relationships are over-rated. The package is never as pretty when you get the wrapping off, you know? The girls don’t know what to do, the body isn’t really as hot as you think it is, and nobody is up for two hours of solid ass fucking. Not that that’s my cup of tea, but you know what I mean.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“So I was thinking,” Oscar was in ignore Nacho mode, “that we’re all off base in this whole looking for love thing. Even the radicals are stooges for the neo-conservative PC morality imposed by old white men suffering from the burden of guilt, despair and hopelessly small cocks.”
I shook my head, “Oscar, are you condemning morality now? I mean, I thought you always felt America was amoral.”
“Well, I’m changing my tune, big mon. I’ve been here a while, I traveled the country, I watched a couple of your friends try to cut your throat because you mentioned sodomy once too many times and I spied on your ex-girlfriend when she was muff diving in that ground floor hotel room. I feel I’ve acquired a taste for America. Take the sniper.”
“Sorry?”
“The freak puppy who’s been shooting people,” he waved a hand, “Ah, you’ve been in England for 5 weeks.”
“No, it’s news over there, too.”
“Well, I say he’s the product of a moral society.”
“But… Isn’t morality good? Thou shalt not kill, steal, finance and operate desert training camps…?”
“Well.. yes…”
“I think you’re using the wrong terms here. You want a moral society, but you disapprove of so-called political correctness.”
“And that’s a temporary social dynamic?”
“Foible is the word that comes to my mind,” I shouted as Rita entered into her second song – a sustained, keening wail. “The idea of equality is a sound one, but the fact that it’s only practiced in words and not actions makes it a hollow point and, in my opinion, is a symptom of an amoral society. That confusion is what creates snipers, hillside stranglers and zodiac killers. The children of Nixon’s Silent Majority have all become broken-hearted, pudgy, emasculated white people. It’s the ultimate lesson why society should not be homogenized in the interest of stemming the tide of social revolution. The ruling classes don’t like to be ruled, the revolution never dies, and life’s middle managers fail to adjust. So we have kids who blow away their schools, snipers who cap old ladies and baby rapers by the truckload. Then, despite all the protestations that America is the noble, civilizing force in the universe, the truth quietly dawns on us that we’re a despicable, hateful terrorist state. Hell, we were blowing up women and children when Saddam was in diapers. Cuba, Chili, Angola, Panama, Nicaragua, El Salvador… The Bay of Pigs was the largest terrorist action in history. When that failed, our government hired the mafia in the hopes of killing Castro. We sent kids onto Cuban airplanes with dynamite, we blew up Orlando Letelier’s car right here in DC in an attempt to strengthen Pinochet’s position in Chili. The Cuban-American Foundation has been funding terrorist activities in Cuba for 40 years and they have a stronger political presence than the Jews. Everyone complains about the Jews, but at least they’re left wingers. Sure, Israel’s a retarded idea, but American Jews are still an educated, respectable group of people. Not a bunch of hyperactive, switchblade wielding madmen who use refugee children to further their cause.”
Oscar blinked a few times, then his gaze drifted down to the table. “What the fuck are you drinking?”
“It’s a Tropical Sling.”
“It looks like a fruit salad.”
“The fruit is soaked overnight in a blend of different liquors. It’s quite nice.”
“I have no idea what you were saying earlier,” Oscar said softly, though the fact I could hear him over Rita’s wailing meant he was probably shouting. How can one slender brunette with spirally hair make so much noise? It was strangely arousing and, I must admit, I wanted to touch Rita Sullivan in the bikini area.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “you had a point about the sniper?”
“I was just going to say that shooting the 13 year old disgusts me. That’s not how I would get my point across.”
“No, you would blow up a busload of 13 year olds.”
“Oh, no, no! <i>I</i> wouldn’t. I’m just the idea man, okay?”
“So what’s all this have to do with relationships or whatever you called me down here for?”
“I’m going to run for president.”
I let that one float out there for a bit. I considered not replying, but it’s kind of like watching a man get hit by a bus. You want to run up and say, ‘Dude, what was that like?’
“President?” I asked. “Of the US?”
Oscar nodded, downed his ginger ale, then smiled. “I have the money and the time. I just want one term to set everything right. Declare martial law, make America right again, then fade away. Like those Roman generals that the Republic made into dictators during times of crisis. Set everything straight and then go home to your farm and ignore all further responsibilities. It worked for their Republic, it’ll have to work for this one.”
“The Roman Republic got ass fucked, Oscar.”
Oscar waved his hand, “Extenuating circumstances.”
It’s hard to reply to things like this. I’d have an easier time if Adolf Hitler told me he was applying for a job at the Rainbow Alliance.
“I want you to be my biographer,” Oscar continued. “Follow me on the campaign trial.”
“This is the craziest, most offensive idea I’ve ever heard.”
Oscar nodded, pushed my Tropical Sling a little closer towards the edge of the table, then leaned in close. “I’m having a moral crisis, Nacho. I must act. I must correct the problems in society.” Oscar scooted his chair back, leapt onto the table and, surprisingly, began sea chanting in perfect harmony with Rita Sullivan.
The waitress came over and asked me if I wanted another Tropical Sling. She took one look at my face, then asked, “Are you okay, sir?”
“I feel like I just stepped into Sweeney Todd’s barbershop.”
“Sir?”
“Bring me two more.”
“Sir.”