by
Imagine Asa's consternation when the results of the Hittite Report were released to the public. Needless to say, this fine, upstanding gentleman made certain his lovely little wife Ava was spared the sordid details. And what was it all about? Let's go to the evening news for the answer: anything which causes sixteen million people so much injury warrants the kind of coverage only the pros are trained to give.
The evening news. Brought to you by the Environmental Mental Protection Agency. A man in a blue suit is speaking to you, so please pay attention. His tone is somber. "For three decades we have been chastised, cajoled, castigated, criticized and in every other way imaginable put upon by the legion of those bent upon protecting the environment no matter how much damage they do to the economy, the social structures, the political institutions of this great nation. For three decades they have polluted the environment - not the physical environment, but something far more important: the environment of the mind. Of your mind, my mind, all our minds. The mental environment. Now, at last, there's something you can do. Now, at last, you can fight back. Now, at last, there's a way to help protect that fragile world within a world. Now, at last, there is an agency dedicated to saving the psyches of the American people from the ravages of thirty years of misguided efforts to save a few blades of grass. Now there is the Environmental Mental Protection Agency, an organization dedicated to the proposition that worrying the day-lights out of you is a whole lot worse than anything you might do to the environment. The Environmental Mental Protection Agency: setting priorities straight again; safeguarding the environment of the mind; working together to put trees back in their place. So call us at 1-800-Dig-It-Up. That's 1-800-344-4887. Or write us at Pueblo, Colorado. Remember: a mind is a terrible thing to pollute. The Environmental Mental Protection Agency. Void where prohibited."
Now the news. Pretty Evangeline, the new co-anchor, is all smiles her first day on the job as she announces the dismemberment of three Siamese twins; the wreck of a mule train on its way to the base of the Grand Canyon; the bludgeoning of a tomboy by her effeminate school-mate; and the disembowelment of an aged couple who used propane gas in bed. Now the camera focuses on Bert van Mertz, long time co-anchor of the Evening News, having been unable to get a better job in Chicago or New York. Bert the Mert reports on the latest survey of sexual appetites: the Hittite report, named for its conceptor, Professor Armand Hittite of the University of Michigan School of Anthropology. "The average American male - married or unmarried - has sex 2.7 times per week. Of this, .2 times consists of activity specifically defined as illicit by the various states of the union. We have in our studio the nationally knows syndicated columnist Steward Wilkie, who, as you know, is an authority on both constitutional law and sexual mores. Mr. Wilkie, what are we to make of this report?"
Stu Wilkie was immaculately attired in his famous Scottish tweed sport coat. He looked straight at the camera. "Those of us who for years have followed the sexual habits of the American public are not the least surprised by it," he is telling you. "We saw it coming. To put it bluntly, our freewheeling attitude toward sex could only have produced just the kind of degeneracy you see reflected in these statistics. For years we have given people to imagine that what they do with their bodies is their own affair. Now we must pay for that costly quaint little notion - just as we have come to pay for all our liberal attitudes. Until people learn that there simply is no substitute for rules, and that there is a reason why certain men were chosen to make and enforce these rules, we will continue to have an imperfect society."
An "imperfect society": just the very thing, in fact, which Asa has worked so long and hard to try and change. Great men strive for greatness, even though they know they may be seeking the impossible; perfect men strive for perfection, knowing too how difficult their task is. But they keep at it, and that's what makes this world what it is. All of which is to say that Asa is watching, listening, keeping abreast of what goes on around him, and, best of all, evaluating everything, interpreting its true significance (which sometimes he alone can see). But he knows God is on his side, so he knows he will eventually succeed in creating his perfect society. He is on the phone now, discussing the news with the President.
"Quite frankly, Asa, I was shocked by what I heard," the President admits. "I had no idea good Americans could do such terrible things."
"Good Americans couldn't," Asa is quick to point out. "Those who can are clearly unworthy to be called American."
"Realistically, though, what can we do? Isn't their right to have sex - day and night if they choose, so long as it isn't kinky: isn't it protected by the Constitution, Asa?"
"It most certainly is not! The Constitution says nothing about sex: our forefathers knew what a demented thing it was and that nothing could ever justify it. They knew that no decent American would wish to have sex and would only do it out of a sense of patriotic duty, to keep the population from falling too low to raise a standing army. Only a subversive would have sex other than to procreate. Generally speaking, Mr. President, having sex more than twice a year is a sign of degeneracy, just as having more than one bowel movement a week is indecent."
"Tell me, Asa - and I'm speaking hypothetically now: how often should a person urinate?"
"Once a day - twice if its unusually hot." Anything more borders on subversion."
"Nevertheless, Asa, back to my original dilemma: what can be done to stop people from having sex so often? We simply don't have the resources to monitor every bedroom in America."
"There are alternatives," Asa informed the President.
"Such as what?"
"Oh, I'd like to think about it awhile, Mr. President, if I may. For now, let me just say that we had a similar problem back home and we managed to deal with it - quite efficiently, in fact."
"Asa, if you could solve this problem, I'd be convinced you're an angel sent from heaven!"
"An angel sent from heaven": the President's very words; and, really, considering the enormity of Asa's love for humanity, perhaps not too shy of the mark either, for Asa is nothing if not a patriot: a genuinely humanitarian patriot, whose first and foremost concern is the well-being of his beloved country. He will stop at nothing to thwart the attempts of subversives to undermine the precious liberties which, thanks to ever vigilant patriots like Asa, are the birthright of all good and true Americans.
He is to kindness and generosity as the beautiful system of competition we enjoy is to fairness and equality. So let's watch him in action, in his hometown of Highland Park, Michigan, as he systematically saves that blessed community from almost certain catastrophe. And let's savor the noble sentiments which guide and, indeed, which prompt his every thought and deed.
In Highland Park, where two streets which face Lake Michigan join, there stands a deserted fast food restaurant: Foot Long Pete's, where you could get the best chili dogs in lower Michigan. It was closed by the Health Department when an inspector discovered aphrodisiacs in the chili sauce. A thorough investigation revealed the owner - Foot Long Pete - to be the former proprietor of an apothecary which dispensed love potions: Ginseng Pete, he was known as then. His apothecary had been closed as a bawdy house by order of the vice squad when it was discovered that his patrons engaged in sexual activity after every visit. Pete's whereabouts were unknown; his restaurant, following the route of his apothecary, had gone into receivership. The aphrodisiacs never turned up, but occasionally there would be reports of unusually severe sexual activity in isolated parts of the city - sometimes as many as six orgasms in the course of a single evening! A blanket warrant was issued for Pete, charging him with dispensing dangerous substances, an addendum to which sought him for questioning on subversive activities. This remarkable document - the first known combination of local and federal criminal charges in a single warrant - became the subject of considerable controversy, as duly reported by the local news.
Action-Reaction. The late-breaking news. Remember: the best time to get the news is now. Brought to you by your friendly neighborhood coroners: we aim to do a number on you. We're here, twenty-four hours a day, for one reason and one reason only: to pronounce you and your loved ones dead. No cause of death is too big or too small. We do the job, and we do it right - the first time, every time. So the next time you need a murder or an accidental death or a death from natural causes certified, or need a body exhumed, think of us. We're here to serve. Your neighborhood coroners. You're not really dead till we say you are.
Big Nick the Sportscaster reminding you that polyester was not the best fabric for athletic gear as it could overheat your testicles and make you sterile.
Reenie the big-eyed weathergirl hoping against hope that the jet-stream doesn't change course again any time soon and cause her to have to re-plot her entire weather map.
"In the News, a special warrant was issued for Peter Malarkey, alias Ginseng Pete, alias Foot Long Pete. You, the viewer, are asked to coin a catchy term or phrase for this warrant. There are two rules: it must combine the concept of federal with that of local; and it must not be offensive to decent public standards. Deadline for the submission of entries is midnight next Thursday. Meanwhile, Dr. Philabuster, the noted geneticist, is here with a warning. Doctor, what can you tell us about aphrodisiacs?"
"Well, first of all, they should not be handled without special protective clothing. If you encounter them, do not attempt to move them. Call the Sex Hot-Line. A special team will be dispatched."
"Why are they so dangerous?"
"They affect the brain - but they do so in a particularly insidious fashion. They enter through the gonads and, from there, travel to the cerebral cortex, where they cause a derangement of the ganglia."
"Is there an antidote?"
"None whatsoever. Once they reach the brain, it's just a matter of time till you become a sex fiend. The only way to prevent it is total removal of the gonads - and this must be done within seven hours of exposure."
"If anyone has been, or even suspects he may have been, exposed, where can he get help?"
"Report at once to your nearest hospital - that is, of course, if you have insurance. Have yourself admitted. Explain the circumstances. A trained physician will then perform the operation. It would be helpful if you already had the area shaved and prepped, ready for surgery."
"Radical surgery?"
"I'm afraid so. This is the only know way to keep the toxin from reaching the brain."
"You mentioned insurance - which, of course, is very important: everyone should have it. What if you don't have insurance?"
"Then you should report to the state prison for the criminally insane to get your testicles removed."
"Thank you Dr. Philabuter."
"The only known way": these words prompted one of the most humane measures ever enacted by a city council - the Cut It Off At The Pass ordinance, which, as a precaution intended to preserve the minds of an unwary public, empowered the police to apprehend those suspected of having been exposed to aphrodisiacs and castrate them, following accepted medical standards. The policeman with the most apprehensions was to be awarded a trophy, plus a bonus in pay.
And what does all this have to do with Asa? Commitment, that's what. He believed so strongly in the measure that he used all his influence to get the ordinance passed. Without him, it's doubtful if a lethargic council could have acted as responsibly or as expediently as Asa felt they should. For when it comes to the mental health of his fellow Americans, Asa leaves no stone unturned. That's just the kind of man he is.
And now here he is, in the nation's capital, faced again with an epidemic of unbridled sexuality, this time on a national scale. The first thing that came to his mind when he heard of the Hittite Report was old Foot Long Pete and his illicit aphrodisiacs. He wondered if perhaps what worked so well in Highland Park (there ensued within six weeks of the passage of the Cut It Off At The Pass ordinance a complete lull in sexual activity) can work on so enormous a scale. Is there some way to adopt it to federal standards? he asks himself. Then he gets an idea. He goes at once to the Food and Drug Administration, where he is warmly greeted by the Administrator.
"There is a man on the loose who traffics in aphrodisiacs," Asa is telling the Administrator.
"I'm scared of him!" comes the judicious reply.
"What I'm wondering is if there's some way, short of a law, to render these vile substances illegal. They are, after all, a dreadful health menace."
"Indeed they are," the Administrator agrees. "Let me look in my listing of crystalline compositions and see if maybe they're enough similar in nature to some already controlled substance to just go ahead and broaden the scope of the pertinent ruling. I'll get back to you later today."
"Thank you so much. I can't impress upon you too strongly the seriousness or magnitude of this matter," Asa is telling the Administrator as he leaves. Asa knows the Administrator is a conscientious man and is therefore aware of the need for immediate action. There is no surprise when a telephone call is received barely three hours later.
"FDA calling: will you hold for the Administrator?"
"I certainly will," Asa replies.
"Asa? The Administrator here. Sorry to be so long, but I had a little matter to straighten out. As you know, we've been trying to ban ascorbic acid for quite some time - it's so potentially dangerous. The AMA feels it should be available by prescription only. Anyway, some fool clerk got the paperwork mixed up and we almost ended up banning dioxin, which, as you know, is an immensely useful substance which the business community greatly relies upon. Fortunately, we caught the mistake in time. Anyway, concerning your problem: I've checked the listings and I found a similarity between certain aphrodisiacs and a drug called curare. You may have heard of it. The South American headhunters use it in their blow-darts. It's a deadly poison and it just happens to be a controlled substance: only paramilitaries may legally possess and use it. So I've ordered a recall of all aphrodisiacs. Anyone in possession of any will be in violation of the law."
"Thank you so much, Mr. Administrator," says Asa. "I'll take it from here."
Asa at once phones the President and gives a full report, adding his personal recommendations. "I would favor a federal sodomy law. Anyone having sex more than twice a year - and for any purpose other than procreation - would automatically be in violation of it; besides which, having sex more than twice a year would be prima facie evidence of having possessed and used a controlled substance. And since the FDA has now properly classified all aphrodisiacs as poisons, any action would be justified in order to protect the lives of our citizens and the health of our children. Specifically ...."
Getting down to specifics is best left to the experts, so let's go to the nightly news for that crucial report on "specifics."
The Between-Prime-Time-Showing-Spot. The special five minute news segment you've waited since six to see. Brought to you by Peenoes Popcorn, the popcorn with that special something, that all-American taste, the taste of Patriotism. Peenoes: we put a pinch of pomp and circumstance in every single red-white-and-blue kernel.
A twelve year old boy comes out; he is dressed in a blue satin suit with knickers and wears a white tam-o-shanter. On his toes are taps, and he carries a piccolo.
"Hi!" he sings. "I'm Dickey-Doo, from Denver too, with all the news for you! Five glorious minutes of good news in five-eighths time. Baby Boo, with the heart of a gerbil, was burned in a sudden crib explosion, when her oxygen tank was ignited by a careless paramedic. Ponca Plup, the Chilean ambassador, was bludgeoned outside his embassy. The newly passed Federal Sodomy Law has yielded sixteen million arrests. The testicles of these men are being tested for traces of poison. So if you don't want to be castrated too, keep that zipper zipped and remember: use it, you lose it; its better to be safe than sexless. Just say no. Now this."
A famous celebrity is reminding you that "Made In America" means "Made according to God's own measurements. If you can't find your size among the all-American sizes, then you weren't Made By God. So look for the label "In God's Tailor We Trust."
"I hope no one minds that we had to castrate sixteen million American men," the President is saying to Asa. Asa is in a phone booth so that his little wife will not overhear such blunt talk.
"Why should they?" Asa responds. "Number one, they clearly were Americans in name only, but not deed; otherwise they would not have allowed themselves to become sex fiends; and number two, and more importantly, we saved them from possible injury - or even death - from a substance the FDA itself likens to curare, which, as you know, is a deadly poison. All we did, Mr. President, is what any good surgeon does: we sacrificed the bad part of these men in hopes of salvaging whatever good there might be in them. That's all we did. The real damage was done by themselves, to themselves. If only they had not taken aphrodisiacs. If only."
"You're right, Asa, of course. I guess I'm just an old worry wart," the President confesses.
"No," Asa corrects him, "you're just like me, a little too kind-hearted for your own good. But what can we do? God made us this way. We must accept our fate and make the best of it."
"So true, Asa. So true."
"So true."