“The greatest delight is to mark one’s enemy, prepare everything, avenge oneself thoroughly, and then go to sleep.” Joseph Stalin
To: Mr. Bill O’Reilly, Host of Fox’ The O’Reilly Factor and Westwood One’s The Radio Factor
From, no, no, Dictated by: Joseph Stalin
Re: Watch Your Steppes
Dear Mr. O’Reilly:
I have been watching you for some time. I felt your understanding of media manipulation, coupled with a bloodthirsty hungry for exploitation, showed some true promise.
But then I heard your recent petty tirade on your national radio show, in which you cut off a caller because he mentioned an enemy’s name. (Keith Olbermann, that ex-sportscaster, is an enemy to who? A steroid?) You then followed up by threatening this caller with a potential visit from the Fox Police.
To put it bluntly, Mr. O’Reilly, you are a disappointment to the glorious tradition of autocrats throughout the ages. You’ve upset my fine friend Torquemada so deeply, he’s been refusing food and sangria for days.
I’d like to believe that I wasn’t wrong about you. Let me restate: I’m never wrong. Perhaps what you lack is proper training. Consider this missive your first instruction in Dictatorship 101.
Nyet on the Empty Threat
So you silenced a caller. You refused him airtime. Boo-hooski. You don’t cut off a caller, fool! You cut off a caller’s head! And not just his head but his family’s heads and his entire village’s heads! Wait, hold on, I’ve got Milosevic talking in my other ear, he’s just come in, dead on time. He thinks you should destroy the traitor’s country and countrymen, as well. But then, that’s Slobo all over why take out one when you can take out one million? What a kidder!
I was born such a poor schlub that my mother took in wash and I don’t think she ever returned it. (See? Slobo’s not the only joker in the group!) The length of my name was the only opulent thing about me: Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili. Sure, some child could easily win a spelling bee if he/she could get all the letters right, but VissarionovichDzhugashvili-Grad just didn’t have the right ring. Instead, I renamed myself the “Man of Steel”. No, you Kretin, not Superman… Stalin.
For you, I’m thinking maybe we just stick with your initials: BOR. As the name “Man of Steel” impeccably represents my magnificent self, I think “BOR” is perfect for you. It’s short, descriptive, yet with limited expectations. You agree, yes? Of course you do.
A Marshall Plan
You can’t just casually mention you have a policing entity called Fox Security. Idiot! Dumkof! First, you have to actually own Fox Security, and second, you must outfit that army in proper military garb: from rabid, fox faces on the helmets to shiny stormtrooper boots. Then you have to teach your men how to march. To quote George Orwell, the goosestep is “an affirmation of naked power… the vision of a boot crashing down on a face.” You should call your army the BORshevicks, and they must perform a mean goosestep whenever you command. Hopefully their goosesteps will drown out any of your missteps, da?
You have an advantage that you’re not properly using, you big, baby-faced BOR, you! Whenever you’re not hunched over like Quasimodo, dodging all those imaginary rotten tomatoes you think your enemies are throwing at you, you boast a height of six feet, four inches tall. Think of it: from Napoleon (5’6″) to Benito (5’7″) to Adolf (5’8″) to me (5’4″), you stand head and shoulders above us all. Even that fellow with the girly name, that Kim Jong-il who’s only 5’3″, has a goosestepping army that he’s not afraid to employ, anytime, anywhere.
But then we have you, a giant among despots. You, who chose to beat up on NPR’s petite Terry Gross, a little girl who might weigh 90 pounds after downing a supersized tray of blintzes. You went after a young man named Jeremy Glick who lost his papa on 9/11. You sexually harassed an underling, your very own employee Andrea Mackris, and then you sued Al Franken no giant unless he’s in a room filled to the max with Munchkins.
We of the short and mighty would have given half a country to have your height! Why, even Saddam from Iraq… excuse me, Torquemada is signaling me. “Ha, ha! No, my friend, I said Iraq, not ‘a rack’. But now that you mention it, a stretching machine might have been a good idea. What’s pain when you can have height?” Where was I? Oh, yes, even given our shortcomings, we were bloodthirsty dictators, brilliant tacticians of war and mayhem, redrawing history as we saw fit. If nothing else, we had brains. But you, BOR? With all that “tall”, you’re so very small. Pity.
Hmmm. In assessing the damaged wasteland of your actions, not unlike Siberia after global warming, I think I might be wrong about you, after all. Strongarm tactics are only for those who have a strong arm. Crawl back to where you came from, you crybaby, with your made-up tales between your legs. You’re no more use to me than democracy.
Now I have no more time for you. My best student is on the other line. “Hello, Cheney? When I said ‘shoot quayle,’ I was talking about Dan. Idiot!”