I showed up to the Public Works garage and found out that I had about five hours of parts runs in front of me, so I hit the road almost right away, and over the course of the day, I listened to the radio. It was while listening to a morning show that I learned that Oliver North was going to be signing books at the Borders in Oak Brook. My Borders. Holy shit, Ollie North was going to be in my neighborhood!
Most of you probably think of him as a correspondent for Fox News and as the host for the show, WAR STORIES. For those of you with a longer (and more unforgiving) memory, you will remember his part in the Iran Contra Scandal, in which he was the fall guy for President Reagan (allegedly, of course). It was such a weasel-type move that most people vilified him for being even worse than Nixon. Maybe that’s true, but like Nixon, North has recently regained favor in the eyes of the public. I have no doubt that when he dies, people will look favorably upon him as a statesman and a true military hero.
Which is horseshit, of course. But who cares? He can no longer hurt our country.
I felt like it was time for a little bit of revenge. It wasn’t going to be much in the big picture, just a tiny fuck you from one of the little people. I decided to take a page from Kevin Smith’s playbook; I was going to stinkpalm the bastard.
For those of you who haven’t seen MALLRATS, stinkpalming is when you stick your hand in your own ass and wait for the stink to take hold. You then shake hands with your enemy, to whom the stink will transfer, and they will spend the rest of their day trying to figure out what that horrible smell is. And it will stick to them after a few washings, too. The only drawback is that your hand will smell like that, too, but as one character noted, “It’s a small price to pay for the smiting of an enemy.”
When I got home from work, sweaty from heavy lifting, I inserted my hand into the crack of my ass and waited. And waited. And waited. I wanted to make sure this was going to work, so I waited for an hour before removing my hand and giving it a tentative sniff.
Joliet Dumpster flies would have dropped dead if they were in my vicinity.
I put a disposable rubber glove on that hand, so it wouldn’t lose any of its potency, and I then got into my car and drove to Borders. When I got there, much to my dismay, I learned that I had to purchase a copy of North's most recent book at the time, THE JERICHO SANCTION, in order to get in the signing line. (By the way, it’s worth noting that the book is written by North and Joe Musser, which leads me to believe that North came up with the idea and Musser did the actual writing. Never ignore the ghost writer.)
It was twenty bucks. Again, a small price to pay. I bought the fuckin’ book and got my ticket to get into line.
Before I stepped up to the velvet ropes, I went to the bathroom, where I removed the glove and threw it away. Just to make sure I was still in good shape, I smelled my hand and was not disappointed. I had to remind myself not to touch anything with that hand, to just let it hang loosely by my side.
As I waited in line, it became very clear to me that I was surrounded by Republicans. Shit, I was in the den of the enemy. I’m not a Democrat, and I am conservative in a few respects, but still, I had this horrible feeling in my guts that I was doomed. They were on to my ruse, and they’d tear me to pieces like the beasts they are.
I started to sweat a little, and I was about to switch the book from one hand to the other when I remembered about the stinkpalm. Instead, I transferred the book to my armpit, so I could wipe my left hand off on my pants.
Behind me, a group of vets were reminiscing about the good times in Vietnam. It wasn’t like this was some kind of vacation they were talking about, they were talking about violent situations, killing actual people, and they were laughing about it. One of them said that he was going to rib North about having to come to his rescue one time. I guess you had to have been there, out in the shit, to get that kind of joke. I started wondering if my stinkpalm to North would have a chain reaction, that it would spread to the assholes behind me, and then to people they know.
Finally, after moving through a zigzagging line, I had Ollie North in my sights. I almost expected him to have arrived wearing his dress uniform, but he was really wearing a suit and tie. He was smiling for cameras and shaking hands and signing books at a lectern. There was a microphone in front of him, presumably so everyone could hear his pithy remarks as he met average, everyday people.
After having waited for so long, it was my turn to meet the man, the legend, the myth. He smiled, holding out his hand. I took a hold of it with my right and squeezed for all I was worth. He had a strong handshake, himself. In fact, it was almost as if we were in a contest to see who was stronger.
“Firm handshake,” he said. “Good to see in someone your age. What’s your name?”
“John,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
He took my book and opened it to the dedication page, where he signed it. (This is unusual; usually, authors sign the title page.) “You watch my show on Fox?”
“Every chance I get,” I lied.
“Good man. It’s good to see a young man like you interested in conservative politics. We need more of your kind.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He put a bookmark—-an advertisement for WAR STORIES—-into my book and handed it back. This time, I offered my hand. Just to make sure the stinkpalm worked. Once again, he offered his brightest smile, and I was on my way. I looked back just once to see if he detected something was wrong. Sadly, I never got to see his reaction.
I went to the bathroom to scrub at my hand, but it was to no avail. I would be stuck with the stink for another day before I felt safe enough to touch anything with it.
On my way out of the store, I saw one of the guys who had been standing behind me. It gave me some satisfaction to see him sniff the air and grimace. “You smell something?” he said to his war buddy.
“Yeah. Don’t know what it is, though.”
On the car ride home, I kept thinking that North would have the same question circulating in his head. Maybe he’d figure out it was coming from his hand, but what could he do about it? Nothing, at least not for a day.
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