Asa and Ava were out walking past Union Station, having come up Massachusetts Avenue. They were just rounding North Capitol Street when they witnessed something so shocking, so offensive, so uncivilized that Asa blushed and Ava swooned. Asa steadied his little wife while he took her vapors from her purse and held the tiny bottle to her nose.
"Hey Mack!" some passing busybody cried out, "don't give the bitch no poppers: she'll get AIDS!"
Asa summoned a patrol car and had the man arrested for blasphemy: to even mention something so monstrous as AIDS in the context of so virtuous a couple was tantamount to cursing the Almighty.
Actually, Asa would have had to summon the police anyway, to report the incident which caused Ava to swoon. A horse, drawing a vegetable cart, had an erection and was walking along without the slightest hint of shame. Neither did the vendor seem to be aware of the animal's monstrous breach of etiquette. In not chastising the creature, the vendor was clearly guilty of neglect - and, indeed, was charged with just that, in addition to creating a public nuisance.
"Animals should be properly trained," Asa pointed out the the patrolmen. "Or else, at the very least, their private parts should be covered. Preferably both. Otherwise, we may as well throw civilization right down the nearest drain. Please observe, officer, how my wife and I are dressed: this is how everybody out in public should look. Coat and tie for the gentleman, dress for the lady. Yet how many people do you see thusly attired? Precious few, I'm afraid. It's no wonder people let dumb animals go naked - they wander the streets without much else on themselves! It's appalling, and something has to be done about it before it's too late!"
"Something has to be done about it" Asa has said. And, indeed, something may just be in the works. So let's turn for a moment to the evening news, where everything that is, was or will ever be can be had for the taking with just one little flick of the dial.
The Evening News, where you're not only informed but entertained too. Brought to you by your new SPCA. A man who looks like he has been mauled by a wild animal is being wheeled down a long corridor. The scene shifts to a child with his arm in a cast. Then a man in a white coat comes on.
"What you've just seen," he is telling you, "was not staged. It was real, it was frightening. These persons were victims of unprovoked attacks by animals. For too long we have devoted our precious resources to protecting animals. Now it's time to take a closer look at what's really happening. Now it's time for a shift in focus. Now it's time for a new SPCA - a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty By Animals. It's time we stopped worrying about caged monkeys, or beagles with fractured limbs, or porkers with scar tissue, or rabbits with sensitive skin, or seals with migraines, and started concentrating on ourselves for a change. Because the danger is very clear and very present. They're out there, they're stalking, they're potential killers. And what they can do when they get you in their clutches is far more cruel than anything you might do to them. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty by Animals needs your help if we're to win the war with the beasts. Animals: still our deadliest enemy."
Pretty Evangeline, the newest co-anchor, did not go over in the ratings and was asked to move back to Podunk, Iowa. She refused, and went on with her show. But during the next commercial break the producer intends pulling her and replacing her with a much more stylish co-anchor, Svelte Sydney, a former model with a four-star smile. Meanwhile, just as Evangeline starts to give you this evening's top story, the camera switches to Bertram Mertz, who is unprepared because the producer had failed to inform him that a camera will never again focus on Evangeline. There is a tense moment while Bert the Mert fumbles for his copy. Unbeknownst to anyone, the advertiser who is sponsoring this segment soils his pants in anticipation of tomorrow's ratings. Finally, Bert the Mert gets his wits together.
"A woman out jogging was attacked and raped early this morning near L'Enfant Promenade. Her attacker had a large German Shepherd with him and she is not certain if it was the man or his dog which actually raped her. She told authorities the rapist was unusually hairy, but is unable to identify either the man or the dog because she blacked out and was only vaguely aware of the act itself. When asked if possibly she had been raped by both, she said she felt certain only one penetration had occurred. We have in our studio the noted authority on animal sexuality, Dr. R. W. Bittner of Tulane University. Dr. Bittner, could the dog have done it?"
"Animals have at best an indistinct notion of morality, Bert. There are documented cases of sexual assaults on humans by various animals, most notably marsupials and goats. And of course there are innumerable reports of lewd behavior and very explicit sexual overtures. At present, there are no laws governing solicitation by animals. Ironically, a number of states prohibit humans from engaging in sexual activities with animals; but none have come to grips with the real problem."
"What do you propose, Dr. Bittner?"
"Two things. First and foremost, life behind bars for any animal found guilty. It's time we stopped deluding ourselves, or coddling these lascivious creatures. For too long we have let their lesser intelligence exonerate them from personal responsibility for their actions. I think the time has come to read George Orwell's Animal Farm a bit more literally."
"And your other proposal?"
"People who don't properly clothe their animals should be charged as pimps. Any instance of sexual arousal must be used as evidence in a properly convened court of law."
"Thank you Dr. Bittner. We'll be right back after this important message.
A cow is shown in silhouette performing a two-step. An announcer is offering some insight into something of great concern to you - "especially if you're a mother. Because then a contented cow is more than just a good dancer; it's a good provider too! Because you want the most wholesome, nutritious milk possible for your children. You want milk from contented cows, yes; but you also want milk for contented cows. That's right. Science has shown that like produces like. If you want to take the best milk from your cows you must first give them the best milk. What goes around comes around. So we've developed a milk with you in mind: a milk just for cows. To give them that extra something so that the milk they provide your baby will be the richest, finest ever produced. We call it Coronation. Why? Because it's made from pure golden corn, in our own laboratories in Spokane, Washington. Made specially digestible for cows. Coronation. The milk of human kindness. Patent pending."
Pretty Evangeline was nowhere to be found. "I liked her, too," Asa's wife, Ava, is saying.
"There was some scandal," Asa explains.
"Scandal?"
"There must have been, for them to take her off so suddenly. She might have been passing news stories to the Soviets, or some other terrorists."
"Oh no!" cried Ava. "You just can't tell about people!"
"Well, she always had a little bit of a subversive smile," Asa pointed out. "And, furthermore, I found out she's a lifetime member of Friends of Animals."
"Oh God!" Ava despaired. "I'll just never trust a newswoman again. I do like Svelte Sydney though," Ava said after watching a bit more of the news. "Surely she can't be subversive - look at that smile: have you ever seen anything more all-American in your life?"
Asa carefully studied Svelte Sydney's smile. "You're right," he concluded; "there's no trace of subversion there. She'll make a fine little newscaster."
Ava felt reassured: if her husband was satisfied with Sydney's smile, all was right with the world again. She need not quit watching the evening news - as she had had to do back home, when the infamous Spitzon ring was exposed.
Spitzon got his name because he chewed tobacco and spat on the sidewalk. He was a cat breeder and an environmentalist; he was also part owner of station WWWW, Highland Park's premier TV station. One evening, while watching the news, Ava noticed what appeared to be cat droppings on the studio floor. This alarmed her: as an American she knows that what happens on TV as good as happens in her own living room, and she was horrified that any decent station would permit filth in people's living rooms.
The moment Asa returned home she informed him what had happened. "What do you suppose it means?" she asked.
"It can only mean one thing," Asa replied gravely. "A cat has always been the symbol of evil -"
"With good reason!" Ava interrupted. "Any creature who would soil a TV station certainly is evil!"
"Precisely. And what is the greatest evil you can possibly think of?" Asa asked.
"Why, subversion," Ava replied. Asa nodded his assent.
"I'm afraid station WWWW is being used by subversives to try and undermine the security of this great nation," Asa informed his wife.
Ava was too horror-struck to say anything at first. Finally, in a trembling voice, she asked how the subversion was taking place.
"They're slanting the news," Asa explained. "Everything they give out is distorted. Ava: I don't want you to watch the news anymore till I give you the green light. As a woman you're especially susceptible to that kind of propaganda. I'll get a portable TV so I can monitor the news in the basement. You can watch reruns of Lawrence Welk - but let me know if you see anything suspicious. As good an American as Lawrence Welk is, he's also a musician. And musicians are artists. And artists are generally subversive. So be very careful. If you hear anything that sounds even remotely Russian, turn the TV off immediately and get an American flag out of the bureau until help arrives."
"I may just knit and not even watch TV."
"That may be the wisest thing."
But, of course, being a woman, Ava could not resist TV. She turned it on, intending to watch Lawrence Welk; but he was preempted by a White Paper report entitled "When the Sky Fell." It was about animals, its title referring to the tale of Chicken Little. Specifically, it was about alleged cruelty to animals in a commercial context: no research projects, no little boys pulling the wings off flies; just food processing and clothes manufacture. Up front was the tale of The Chicken Man, a big mid-West poultry processor indicted on a charge of negligence. It seems his chickens got cooked too soon; the temperature in their unvented ten by ten foot coop rose unexpectedly to 250 degrees during a massive heat wave. Ten thousand chickens were roasted in a single afternoon and had to be put in the garbage. Ava wept for the Chicken Man, who suffered not only the loss of millions of dollars of stock but the indignity of being hauled into court on so preposterous a charge. Asa heard her weeping, came upstairs, saw the TV turned on, watched the program a moment and, putting two and two together, instantly knew what the problem was.
"Negligent?" she asked tearfully. "How could they be so callous as to call that poor man negligent? Is he responsible for the weather? Did he purposely make it hot? Oh, how could they? How could they?"
"Because they have no heart, and no soul," Asa replied. "Their years of liberal schooling keeps them from seeing anything the way it really is. They react in a predictably knee-jerk fashion. An entrepreneur loses millions and all they care about is a flock of dumb chickens! It's obscene. But the days of the mindless liberal are numbered, have no fear. Sanity will prevail eventually."
"I hope so," said Ava.
"It will," Asa assured the little woman. "In just one broadcast I've identified enough subversion to send Spitzon before the firing squad. Believe me, Ava, he will never get his subversive hands on a news story again."
"Oh I hope not," said Ava. "Because I do so miss my evening newscast."
Asa contacted the chairman of the FCC and had an injunction placed against Spitzon to prevent his interference with the presentation of the news. His staff was given lie detector tests to see if they bore any complicity. Big Nick the Sportscaster and Reenie the Big Eyed Weathergirl passed; but Moxie McGoo, the co-anchor who resembled a cartoon character, failed and was named a co-conspirator. Later when it was discovered that Moxie was a cat lover, her press pass was voided. In the course of her trial, the cat droppings which originally alerted Asa and Ava to the conspiracy were positively identified as belonging to her tomcat, Downer. Eventually, the pet shop owner who sold Moxie the cat, the trainer who taught Downer to defecate, the proprietor of the local Humane Society, the woman who advertised cat food on TV and the maker of catnip flavored snacks were also charged. Asa was commended for helping break one of the biggest news slanting rings in the country. "I know," he said, "that only a free press can report the right news from the right perspective. And no price is too great to pay for that."
"No price is too great" Asa said; and, of course, he meant it - which is why he's willing to sit by the hour and monitor what is reported on TV. So great is his commitment to a free press, in fact, that he will allow only two things to interrupt him: a call from the President and a hint of subversion someplace else. In fact he is interrupting his vigil at this very moment to take a call from the President.
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," the President is saying.
"No, Mr. President," Asa replies. "A commercial message just came on. Then they're going to have a man in the street interview concerning the new co-anchor."
"Svelte Sydney."
"Yes, Mr. President, Svelte Sydney. So I don't need to watch too closely. I'm sure there'll be nothing subversive about a man in the street piece."
Famous Last Words, as it turned out. Because the very first respondent said something so incriminating that he was arrested and beaten to death in an attempt to get him to confess his crimes.
"What do you think of Svelte Sydney?" the roving reporter asked.
"The bitch's got titties for days!" came the obnoxious reply - a reply which at once caught Asa's attention. He might not otherwise have noticed the man's companion: a large German Shepherd dog.
"Mr. President," Asa said, "I think I've found the L'Enfant rapist."
"Where was he?"
"I just saw him on TV."
"Can you be sure?" the President asks.
"What he said leaves little doubt," Asa assured the President. "I think I'd better hang up, Mr. President, and call the police. This man should be brought in for questioning."
Since the man's name was given, it was easy for the police to apprehend him. He and his dog were brought in for questioning, during the course of which he was inadvertently beaten so badly about the head that he later died. The dog, however, escaped. An all-points bulletin was issued. "If you are a female, do not attempt to pet or feed this animal. It is extremely dangerous. And under no circumstances wear anything alluring."
The bulletin was heard by every woman in DC except Ava, who had gone out for some skeins of yarn to knit her husband a commemorative sweater for the upcoming America: Love It Or Leave It Day ceremonies. The notions store was only three blocks from where Asa and Ava lived, but these were three long blocks, filled with every conceivable nook and cranny where a thug might lie in wait. All of a sudden, walking along with her skeins, Ava heard a wolf whistle. Then, out of a small alley stepped a big German Shepherd, its mouth drooling and its penis erect. Again, Ava heard the wolf whistle. She stopped, looked back, and saw the creature following her. Panic gripped her.
"Oh, if only I'd bought knitting needles too," she bemoaned, "I'd at least have a fighting chance." She quickened her steps; the creature quickened its steps. Presently, she felt something tugging at her hem; she heard a muffled growl. It looked bad for her. Then suddenly there appeared, as if from nowhere, a hot dog vendor, pushing his cart full of wares. The pressure at Ava's hem loosened as the dog ran off after the vendor, wagging its tail. Ava hurried on home, her virtue mercifully intact.
When she told Asa of her encounter with the mad dog, he took time only to scold her for not dressing properly, then he called the CIA.
"Ava," he insisted, "I never want to see you wearing anything so voluptuous as that gray dress again. The sleeves barely cover your wrists, and your ankles show too!"
When the Director of the CIA came on, Asa identified himself, gave his social security number (reminding the Director that social security was one of the most subversive things on earth), pledged his allegiance, and reported the attempted rape of his wife.
"My God!" said the Director, "is she alright?"
"She is, thank God," Asa assured him. "But the rapist is still on the loose."
"And what breed is he?"
"German Shepherd."
"What do you suggest we do?" the Director inquired.
"Round him up."
"How will we know which one to get? There are so many German Shepherds."
"Round them all up, they're all potential rapists. Put saltpeter on their dog biscuits. Then put clothes on the other end, and, when they're rehabilitated, release them. Except for the rapist. He must be destroyed."
"But how will we know him?"
"Show this dog pictures of alluring women," Asa explained. "You'll know right away which is the guilty one."
"Just one other small problem," the Director offered. "This is not, strictly speaking, a CIA matter."
"On the contrary, it is most definitely a CIA matter," Asa corrected the Director.
"With all due respect, Asa - and I don't question for a moment your loyalty - but are dogs really a security risk?" the Director remained unconvinced.
"The very highest risk, I assure you. Dogs - indeed, animals of every description - have been implicated in subversive activity since time began. They are willing participants. And it's well know that they totally lack moral fiber. Indeed, Mr. Director, they have on occasion been guilty of treason."
"Oh my God!" cried the Director. "Treason? Treason you say? Being used to transport classified material to the enemy? But they look so innocent!"
"Looks can be deceiving. You must learn to look beneath the surface."
"I certainly must, mustn't I?"
Every German Shepherd in the District was rounded up. They were taken in paddy wagons to CIA headquarters in McClain, Virginia, where they were de-briefed and given saltpeter. Each was tagged and fitted with a suit of clothes, then released. The rapist, however, had evidently eluded the dragnet: not one dog was aroused by a single alluring photograph. The evening edition carried the headline "Rapist still at large." Women who were not ugly were cautioned to remain indoors unless accompanied by a man. "And under no circumstance should you attempt to disguise yourself as a man and go out alone. Otherwise DC will start to look like the lesbian capital of the world."
"Well, Asa," the President called after the newscast to say, "looks like we've got this pretty much under control, doesn't it?"
"Not by a long shot, Mr. President," came Asa's studied reply. "It's a start, yes; but only a start. We still have a lot of animals out there to clothe. And there's still a mad dog rapist on the loose somewhere. No, Mr. President, this great land of ours won't be safe until the last animal is made to understand just who's country this is. We've got our work cut out for us, Mr. President."
"Well, Asa," the President observed, "we're Americans. We can do it!"
"We can do anything, Mr. President. With God's help."