O m' god. I'm having a serious attack of Irony Overload. This is no joke. In the last few days, the news has been saturated with extreme instances of Natural Irony. It's dangerous stuff. Left unchecked, you know, IO can progress to Morbid Cynicism (MC), which is terminal. The cases to which I refer are not your run-of-the-mill family-values preacher caught pants-down with a male prostitute. These are more colorful, more exotic performances.
Paul Wolfowitz, World Bank prexy and ferocious campaigner against corruption and nepotism, "directed" that his very own girlfriend or house mate or whatever she might be called, be hired at a handsome tax-free salary at a State Department agency where she's to be guaranteed superior evaluations and inordinately large salary increases. It's a variety of cronyism that we can call "nepotistical irony."
Another: Robert E. Coughlin, deputy chief of the criminal division of our very own US of A Department of Justice, which is overseeing the investigation of Jack Abramoff, suddenly needs to spend more time with his family when investigators scrutinize his financial relationship to Kevin Ring, an Abramoff stooge. What are the odds? The investigator supervising his own investigation! There's enough irony in this story to fill a barrel with monkeys or, alternatively, an industrial size hen house with packs of famished foxes. And there's more to the story. Last year, the very same Robert E. Coughlin received, at the hands of Alberto Gonzalez himself, the highly coveted Attorney-General Award for Fraud Prevention.
And just yesterday, when I thought that my IO index couldn't rise any higher, Global AIDS Ambassador and Deputy Secretary of State Randy (actual name!!) Tobias, a big abstinence guy and the overseer of a program designed to help men in poor countries "develop healthy relationships with women" resigned "for personal reasons" when it was revealed that he had been regularly dialing up an "escort service" that sent shady ladies to his home. Asked "if he knew any of the alleged call girls," Randy replied that in "he didn’t remember them at all. He said it was like ordering pizza." Women are like pizza? To a man whose mission is "to help men in poor countries develop... etc., etc." In the face of such a revelation, how's an ordinary guy supposed to keep Morbid Cynicism at bay.
By the way, Randy T. has chosen to go with the Ted Haggard defense. Yes, he frequented prostitutes, but not for sex, only for massage.
So here we go again, dear readers. Pop quiz, multiple choice. Your back is hurting and you need a massage. Whom do you call? Two choices: a) massage therapist, or b) a notorious madam.
If you answered A, you win a lifetime membership in the Committee to Stamp out Morbid Cynicism. If you answered B., you receive a lucrative patronage appointment in the Department of Justice plus a secret e-mail account with the Republican National Committee.