Moehammed O'Chang, Uiger-Irish-Han Detective

Mack Hall


I blame it all on Agatha Christie. In the 1920s she created the fictional detective Hercule Poirot based on the characteristics of real Belgian refugees she met in England during World War I. The gag worked so well that Poirot and his rather dim friend Captain Hastings have been the subjects of dozens of novels, short stories, and films for some eighty years.

In the past decade or so, multi-ethnic detectives appear to be a requirement for any new detective stories: Indian (as in sub-continent), Indian (as in Native American), African (as in Kenya), and combinations thereof indicate that nowadays ya can’t be a detective without a hyphen.

Sherlock Holmes had his pipe and Doctor Watson, Inspector Morse his cigarettes and Sergeant Lewis, and Chief Superintendent Foyle his Scotch and his driver Samantha, but in this chemical-free, pal-free era the new detectives are pretty much restricted to a dog or cat to help them along.

I propose to publishing companies these following chemically-correct, pet-friendly detectives:

Johann Smythe-Bulkovsky, Norwegian-English-Russian police detective and his herring, Bob.

Sammi Robichaux-Gianelli, transgendered Finnish-French-Italian spy and his/her reindeer, Bubba.

Paddy O’Hara-Moriarty, Newfoundland-Newfoundland-Newfoundland police inspector with three eyes, an Irish ancestry that needs a little more genetic diversity, and a talking codfish named Seamus that nobody else can see or hear.

Lupe McKenzie-Nguyen, Mexican-Canadian-Vietnamese private detective and her pal Sparky, a crime-solving electric eel.

Angus Hussein-Llewellyn, Scotch-Iraqi-Welsh police constable and his suicide-bomber hamster, Darryl.

Bubba Boudreau-Zulu, Texan-Cajun-Kenyan CSI geek and his springbok, Hoppy.

Rush Beck-Hannity, ‘merican sit-behind-a-desk-and-think-stuff crime non-fighter, you bet’cha, and his drooling pet fox, Sean. He doesn’t actually do anything; all he does is criticize working police officers and detectives.

X X-X, F.I.L.B.E.R.T. enforcer. If he wanted you to know any more he’d beat it into you.

Dr. Misloz Hans-Hans, Czech-Swiss-Dutch police consulting physician and his petri dish of intuitive bacteria.

Chef Cletus Rabinowitz-Park, the Tennessean-Israeli-Korean cooking-show host who dishes up omelettes and solves crimes using sign language, and his pal Handy the Signing Squirrel, who keeps being accused of making obscene gestures because squirrels haven’t as many fingers as humans.

So whatever happened to Hercule Poirot? He was busted for income-tax fraud and incarcerated in the little grey cells.

Ouch.

Moehammed O'Chang, Uiger-Irish-Han Detective

Mack Hall


I blame it all on Agatha Christie. In the 1920s she created the fictional detective Hercule Poirot based on the characteristics of real Belgian refugees she met in England during World War I. The gag worked so well that Poirot and his rather dim friend Captain Hastings have been the subjects of dozens of novels, short stories, and films for some eighty years.

In the past decade or so, multi-ethnic detectives appear to be a requirement for any new detective stories: Indian (as in sub-continent), Indian (as in Native American), African (as in Kenya), and combinations thereof indicate that nowadays ya can’t be a detective without a hyphen.

Sherlock Holmes had his pipe and Doctor Watson, Inspector Morse his cigarettes and Sergeant Lewis, and Chief Superintendent Foyle his Scotch and his driver Samantha, but in this chemical-free, pal-free era the new detectives are pretty much restricted to a dog or cat to help them along.

I propose to publishing companies these following chemically-correct, pet-friendly detectives:

Johann Smythe-Bulkovsky, Norwegian-English-Russian police detective and his herring, Bob.

Sammi Robichaux-Gianelli, transgendered Finnish-French-Italian spy and his/her reindeer, Bubba.

Paddy O’Hara-Moriarty, Newfoundland-Newfoundland-Newfoundland police inspector with three eyes, an Irish ancestry that needs a little more genetic diversity, and a talking codfish named Seamus that nobody else can see or hear.

Lupe McKenzie-Nguyen, Mexican-Canadian-Vietnamese private detective and her pal Sparky, a crime-solving electric eel.

Angus Hussein-Llewellyn, Scotch-Iraqi-Welsh police constable and his suicide-bomber hamster, Darryl.

Bubba Boudreau-Zulu, Texan-Cajun-Kenyan CSI geek and his springbok, Hoppy.

Rush Beck-Hannity, ‘merican sit-behind-a-desk-and-think-stuff crime non-fighter, you bet’cha, and his drooling pet fox, Sean. He doesn’t actually do anything; all he does is criticize working police officers and detectives.

X X-X, F.I.L.B.E.R.T. enforcer. If he wanted you to know any more he’d beat it into you.

Dr. Misloz Hans-Hans, Czech-Swiss-Dutch police consulting physician and his petri dish of intuitive bacteria.

Chef Cletus Rabinowitz-Park, the Tennessean-Israeli-Korean cooking-show host who dishes up omelettes and solves crimes using sign language, and his pal Handy the Signing Squirrel, who keeps being accused of making obscene gestures because squirrels haven’t as many fingers as humans.

So whatever happened to Hercule Poirot? He was busted for income-tax fraud and incarcerated in the little grey cells.

Ouch.

The Second-Hand Thousand-Yard Stare

Mack Hall

The Second-Hand Thousand-Yard Stare

or

The Doggerels of War

Dedicated to the Liars and The Saps Who Believe Them

Tell me ‘bout the action I never saw;
You heard it all from your brother-in-law,
Knowing from his tales that I wasn’t there:
The same old, second-hand, thousand-yard stare

Tell me ‘bout the river, the Vam Co Tay,
Your uncle or cousin, the Green Beret,
The man who’s seen it all, bullets through the air:
The same old, second-hand, thousand-yard stare

Tell me ‘bout the guys living ‘neath a bridge
Who lost their souls – they say – on some grim ridge,
And you believe their yarns bizarre and rare:
The same old, second-hand, thousand-yard stare

Tell me ‘bout your buddy, the Navy Seal
Who tells you all for a beer and a meal
Killed a thousand Cong with his steely glare:
The same old, second-hand, thousand-yard stare

Tell me ‘bout the heroes silent and strong;
They seem to talk to you, though, all night long,
By gosh, you’re special, and you want to share
The same old, second-hand, thousand-yard stare

You got no closer than a movie show
To Viet-Nam, but gosh you sure do know
All about war, and tell it with such flair:
The same old, second-hand, thousand-yard stare

The poor truth is -- real vets are such a bore,
A barber, plumber, or clerk in a store
But you believe the studs who preen and swear:
‘Nother damn, hand-me-down, thousand-yard stare

Well --

I ain’t no special nothin’; I’m just a man
Who knows a little bit of the lay of the land
Along the Cambodian border where
I never heard of a thousand-yard stare.

Honk if You Cheered for the Iceberg

Mack Hall


Bumper stickers are not nearly as popular as they once were, but they’re still rather good fun. A young friend gave me one that reads EARTH FIRST – WE’LL LOG THE OTHER PLANETS LATER. In that same jolly spirit, here are some other bumper stickers we might enjoy seeing on someone else’s car:

So Your Kid Plays Soccer. Big Whoop.

My Other Car is Worse Than This Heap.

Follow Me to The Bright Light Free Will Four Square Full Gospel Missionary Temple of the Lord Jesus Christ of the Lamb and Auto Detailing, the Reverend Doctor Brother Master Bishop Oafus Smith Bringing Massages Even Though This is a Weekday and Why Would You Follow a Complete Stranger to Some Church You Never Heard of Anyway?

Renew Your Medications if You (heart) Glenn Beck.

I’d Rather Not be Farming.

Rush Limbaugh’s Family Values: More Ex-Wives Than You Have Children.

Honk if You Miss the Habsburgs.

Fellowship of Pagan Athletes.

I’m Not Irish, Thank God.

I Wasn’t Born in Texas; My Company Made Me Move Here.

My Child is an Accelerated Reader – What Does That Mean?

End the Death Penalty – Except for Whoever Invented Reality Shows.

This Smith & Wesson is Protected by a Car.

Harp Seals – They Taste a Little Like Chicken.

I Miss The Inquisition. Really.

Give Thermonuclear War a Chance.

Cats – The Other White Meat.

My Parents Went To Germany And All They Bought Me Was This Stupid Mercedes-Benz.

Certified Public Accountants for Christ.

Please Come Back, George III; All is Forgiven.

The Next Time Germany Invades France, Let’s Stay Home.

It’s Not a Rain Forest, It’s a Jungle.

Let the Polar Bears Drown.

I’m Angry About the Results of the Elections in Which I was Too Lazy to Vote.

When the Last Farmer is EPA’d Out of Business, What Will You Eat?

Have You Read the Label on Your “I Love America” Tee Shirt?

Sophomores – A Renewable Food Source.

Honk if You Cheered for the English soldiers in Braveheart.

Honk if You Cheered for the English soldiers in Gandhi.

Honk if You Cheered for the Iceberg.

A Shot in the Light

Mack Hall

In the next few weeks Americans must make a life-or-death decision for themselves and for their children – ‘flu shots or ‘flu shots-not.

For perhaps two generations we Americans have come to take as a given that we and our children should live healthy lives and die of old age. We have so sheltered ourselves in this matter that we have tossed the reality down the Orwellian Memory Hole – humans haven’t often lived much past thirty. A visit to any rural cemetery lying silently under the sighing pines reminds us of that hard truth, because next to any adult grave one often finds four or five tiny little graves which, if marked at all, will read simply “Baby,” over and over. In the terrible old days young parents did not choose a name until they knew the child would live, and they weren’t terribly optimistic about that.

A diagnosis of pneumonia, once a pronouncement of death, is seldom exciting now, and polio is thought by some to be found only on The History Channel. Vaccines and antibiotics, those wonderful gifts to civilization, are now sometimes questioned as unnatural and unnecessary by generations with no memory of iron lungs and pale hopes that at least some of the children might survive. Some young parents have come to fear the vaccines and medicines that have permitted millions of children to grow up instead of disappearing into forest cemeteries.

Well, here’s some bad news – an injection might indeed kill you or your child. So might a bee sting or a handful of peanuts or a whiff of weed allergens with the next northwest wind. A young acquaintance of mine, now a doctoral candidate, must carry an emergency allergen injector-thingie with her for the rest of her life. It’s a bother, but, hey, it beats being dead.

With immunizations as in most other matters, a parent is morally obligated to make decisions based on knowledge, not on hallway rumors and ‘net chatter. Freedom of information is so essential to a democracy that any restriction on the exchange of ideas is abominable, but the other half of that freedom is the burden of responsibility to seek out the truth.

A genuinely grieving father may be very sincere in his adamant belief that daily bathing caused his son to die of a bone infection, and he may freely post his belief on the ‘net and form clubs and causes. But what are the facts in the matter? Elementary hygiene makes it clear that daily bathing is part of the package of good practices that keep people alive. Should one anecdote, a study of somewhat less than a hundred, as Doctor Bailey of happy memory once said sardonically, then cause a generation of children to remain unwashed?

If a child suffers diarrhea from contamination on improperly cleaned lettuce do we then ban all fresh vegetables from her diet?

If a child eats a grilled-cheese sandwich one day and then falls off his bicycle the next, is there a connection that leads one to forbid grilled-cheese sandwiches?

Rumors, gossips, anecdotes, and conspiracy theories must not inform a mother or father’s decision on the child’s health care.

Take the child to the physician or nurse-practitioner, speak of your concerns, and then LISTEN. Physicians and NPs are, like, you know, smart and stuff. They did not spend their university years reading Jean-Paul Sartre and Bella Abzug, writing revolutionary manifestoes for the university newspaper, and protesting EvilHitlerBush; they employed their time in the texts and laboratories and hospitals under the guidance of physicians who knew how to save lives.

Listen. Think. And then make an informed decision.

There are no guarantees, as your health-care provider will tell you, and the choice must be yours. Pretty heavy burden, eh?

A Shot in the Light

Mack Hall

In the next few weeks Americans must make a life-or-death decision for themselves and for their children – ‘flu shots or ‘flu shots-not.

For perhaps two generations we Americans have come to take as a given that we and our children should live healthy lives and die of old age. We have so sheltered ourselves in this matter that we have tossed the reality down the Orwellian Memory Hole – humans haven’t often lived much past thirty. A visit to any rural cemetery lying silently under the sighing pines reminds us of that hard truth, because next to any adult grave one often finds four or five tiny little graves which, if marked at all, will read simply “Baby,” over and over. In the terrible old days young parents did not choose a name until they knew the child would live, and they weren’t terribly optimistic about that.

A diagnosis of pneumonia, once a pronouncement of death, is seldom exciting now, and polio is thought by some to be found only on The History Channel. Vaccines and antibiotics, those wonderful gifts to civilization, are now sometimes questioned as unnatural and unnecessary by generations with no memory of iron lungs and pale hopes that at least some of the children might survive. Some young parents have come to fear the vaccines and medicines that have permitted millions of children to grow up instead of disappearing into forest cemeteries.

Well, here’s some bad news – an injection might indeed kill you or your child. So might a bee sting or a handful of peanuts or a whiff of weed allergens with the next northwest wind. A young acquaintance of mine, now a doctoral candidate, must carry an emergency allergen injector-thingie with her for the rest of her life. It’s a bother, but, hey, it beats being dead.

With immunizations as in most other matters, a parent is morally obligated to make decisions based on knowledge, not on hallway rumors and ‘net chatter. Freedom of information is so essential to a democracy that any restriction on the exchange of ideas is abominable, but the other half of that freedom is the burden of responsibility to seek out the truth.

A genuinely grieving father may be very sincere in his adamant belief that daily bathing caused his son to die of a bone infection, and he may freely post his belief on the ‘net and form clubs and causes. But what are the facts in the matter? Elementary hygiene makes it clear that daily bathing is part of the package of good practices that keep people alive. Should one anecdote, a study of somewhat less than a hundred, as Doctor Bailey of happy memory once said sardonically, then cause a generation of children to remain unwashed?

If a child suffers diarrhea from contamination on improperly cleaned lettuce do we then ban all fresh vegetables from her diet?

If a child eats a grilled-cheese sandwich one day and then falls off his bicycle the next, is there a connection that leads one to forbid grilled-cheese sandwiches?

Rumors, gossips, anecdotes, and conspiracy theories must not inform a mother or father’s decision on the child’s health care.

Take the child to the physician or nurse-practitioner, speak of your concerns, and then LISTEN. Physicians and NPs are, like, you know, smart and stuff. They did not spend their university years reading Jean-Paul Sartre and Bella Abzug, writing revolutionary manifestoes for the university newspaper, and protesting EvilHitlerBush; they employed their time in the texts and laboratories and hospitals under the guidance of physicians who knew how to save lives.

Listen. Think. And then make an informed decision.

There are no guarantees, as your health-care provider will tell you, and the choice must be yours. Pretty heavy burden, eh?

Who's Sari Now?

Mack Hall

The fists and the curry were flying aboard an Air India flight last week as two pilots (male), an air hostess (female), and at least one other air host or hostess duked out their differences thousands of feet over Pakistan.

The fight began in the cockpit and continued in the galley. Given the public’s Roman fascination for viewing televised humiliation the passengers might have enjoyed the scene of violence if not for the alarming fact that the pilots were involved.

If one is aboard an Air India flight reading The Times of India, enjoying a nice cup of tea, and pondering a business deal involving Mahindra, the serenity of the journey is somewhat compromised by a fist-fight among the crew. And then the really existential question obtains at some point: who is flying the airplane? Does one want to entrust his life to any of these Gladiators of the Air?

The combatants, once they called a truce and landed the plane, gave conflicting statements. The air hostess said the pilots were making some aerial maneuvers on her, while one pilot says the air hostess began hitting him because an air host was offering her more than coffee or tea and she wanted to distract from the real problem, and, yeah, it doesn’t make any sense.

Thank goodness no one whupped out one of those soft plastic spoons that come with the meals, or perhaps a fingernail-clipper or even 1.1 ounce of baby formula. Whew!

If the fight had happened on a United Airlines plane, United would have charged the passengers extra for the entertainment.

Air crews used to give small children little plastic pilots’ wings; I suppose Air India would more appropriately hand out little pilots’ boxing gloves.

And where was the obligatory cute nun with her guitar to sing of peace and love, eh?

Maybe the crew were offended by the inflight movie choices: Gunga Din and Northwest Frontier.

Did the two Air India pilots hit the nearest airport bar and brag to other pilots about beating up a girl?

Captain Sculley and his crew they ain’t.

Accusations of sexual impropriety followed by some bee-slapping: one imagines the television movie, starring David Letterman, RuPaul, Glenn Beck, and one or two bishops, and directed by Roman Polanski, with the fight scenes choreographed by Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.

Remember those airplane disaster movies of the 1970s? One has problems considering remakes with steel-jawed Charlton Heston punching out Karen Black and then tearfully apologizing by Twitter: “i R so bad 4 hit ing u 4-giv me? xxx ooo.”

The plane safely landed, the two pilots lost their licenses, and life goes on. One wonders if the pilots are as ready to fight Pakistan as they were to fight girls; Pakistan’s nuclear program is said to be developing nicely. When the nuclear missiles begin falling on the ancient cities of the subcontinent, folks in the target area might have a millisecond to long for the days of the Raj.

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