A Few Children Stayed Behind
He stands before the class, with curly, graying hair in place. His face bronzed by the blistering August Western sun, the nation's leader speaks: "I wrote a little song for y'all. See? It's titled, "We're Livin' in Dangerous Times." It's 'bout those Islamo Fascists--y'all know who they are? Those tair-ists who blow up airplanes over Amer'ca."
The classroom teacher smiles politely and quiets down her students.
The tall, athletic leader begins again: "Y'all ready? O.K." He starts in a sing-song drawl: "The world's a safer place / without Sah-damn's sorry face / Fight tair-ists over there / instead of . . . Damn, y'all, now. Sing. 'The world is . . .'"
The teacher blushes and quiets down her students a second time.
"What's the matter, y'all?" the leader asks. "Y'all Democrats? Hee, hee. Now the second verse is: 'We live in dangerous times / The tair-ists we will find / I swore to entice . . .'-That's a big word that means to attract, hee, hee. 'I swore to entice them to Iraq / even if I had no reason to attack.'"
This time the distinguished, athletic leader blushes, as the little "Democrats" wiggle and squirm. A snicker or two floats up from the back of the room.
"Y'all naughty prairie dogs better settle down or everyone's on detention! And I promise y'all. No child shall be left behind. Hee, hee."
The teacher's face flushes a deep crimson, and an awkward giggle squeaks out.
The slow talking, plain spoken, wrinkled-faced leader looks around at the little faces, raises his arms as if he intends to conduct a choir, and sings, "Always keep in mind / tair-ists hate our kind / You have to watch for signs / So we can catch them in plenty of time."
He glanced at the teacher and shakes his head. "Don't these young ones like to sing?"
Someone in the back of the room repeats in a low monotone, "The world's a safer place / without Sah-damn's sorry face," in rap rhythm.
The teacher jumps in before the leader can scold the rapper in the back row. "It's the budget, Sir. No more arts programs. Schools are hurting."
His eyes narrowed and he turns to the class. "Hear that class? You're serving your country well. You're sacrificin' so that the nation can have enough money to fight tairism in Iraq." He pumps his forearms in short karate chops for emphasis. "And we're winnin' this war against tairists. Y'all don't listen to the na-sayers." He looks off through the class windows at the billowing cumulus in the steaming sky. "Don't pay any attention to those Democrats who are always talking negative."
The tall, lean leader picks up his cowboy hat and says, "I hate to cut and run, but I gotta catch me some of those tair-ists. Hee hee."
"But Sir, you promised to answer our questions," a little prairie dog blurts out.
"Who you think you are, ya little varmint, Dan Rather? Hee, hee."
The teacher intervenes. "Now, now, class. I'm sure our honored visitor is a busy man. He's got lots of important people waiting to talk to him in Washington."
"About what?" little Danny Rather shouts?
"Hee, hee. I like your chutzpah, little guy," the leader says. "Hee, hee. That's a big word that means . . ."
"Balls," squeals out a future Helen Thomas from the front row.
"Now children," the teacher scolds. "Let's not be disrespectful."
"Hee, hee. I like these guys," he says to the teacher. "A little trainin' and some investments in big business and they'll make good Republicans. Need a little more self-discipline, though." He takes his cowboy hat off and lays it on the teacher's desk. "OK, y'all. Five more minutes. I've got to git back to Washington, you know. Busy man. Hee hee."
A tot who looked eerily like a miniature Seymour Hersh rises. The leader stiffens like a bronze statue. His clears his throat and his eyes dart suspiciously toward the classroom teacher. The teacher shrugs her shoulders, as if to say, "Go figure, big guy."
"Tell ya what, class," the leader says. "Why don't y'all bring up your notebooks and I'll autograph them for ya. Then I've really got to mosey on. Lots of important people waitin' to see me. From diff'rent countries, ya know?"
The tiny Hersh refuses to give up the floor. "Sir. One more question, if you will."
"Autographs anyone?"
Hersh walks up to the tall leader and taps him on the arm, just as the leader was about to sign a notebook. "We gonna invade Iran, Sir?"
The tall leader brushes the hand away. "Hee, hee. You're a tiny one, aren't you. What cha wanna be when you're big like me?" He turns to the teacher and says with pride, "Hey, that rhymes doesn't it."
“What about Syria, Sir? We gonna invade them?"
"Y'all wanna hear me rhyme again?" the bronze leader shouts.
"But Sir, what are we gonna do about North Korea?"
The leader bends down and lifts up little Seymour Hersh, Jr., and holds him face to face: "You, little guy, will not git invited to the Capitol if ya don't learn to git along. You hear?" The leader sits little Seymour firmly on the desk. "You must write on the board a hundred times: 'I shall honor my mother, father, teacher, preacher, and president'."
"Sir, I demur," little Seymour says from the desk.
The leader's eyes widen and a grin flashes across his face. "That's a big word, young whipper snapper. Where'd you learn that?" The leader made a mental note to look the word up later.
"Daniel Shorr on NPR."
"Well, son. That's OK, I guess. But I prefer readin'. Why just last night while I was readin' . . . And y'all know how much I like readin'-Shake Spear and Ann Coulter . . . and what the heck was I sayin'? Oh yeah. Hee, hee. See, y'all got to git a good ejucation if y'all wanna be successful like me." He waves his hand for quiet. "Y'all repeat after me. 'No Child Left Behind'." He pauses and allows the silence to fill the room. "God . . . ah, don't y'all know God wants you to git a good ejucation. And as long as I'm the leader, we want every school in the country behind 'No Child Left Behind'."
Most of the class mutters the slogan with him.
The leader scratches his head and then looks at his young constituency. "Hee hee. I'm not sayin' spend all your time readin', of course. Got to have a good time and relax too." He turns to the teacher and pulls out a twenty dollar bill. "Time for a break. How about some ice cream?"
"Sir, I demur," little Seymour says with thick sarcasm, as the president leads the excited children out the door and into the leader's limousines to get ice cream.
Little Danny Rather and Helen Thomas hang back to compare notes with Seymour Hersh Junior. Soon, a miniature version of Keith Olbermann walks over pounding his fist into a catcher's mitt. They are joined by a pint-sized girl named Maureen Dowd who is writing frantically in a notebook.
Danny calls for silence. "Listen, let's break up into teams. Helen and I will follow him to Baskin and Robbins. You, Seymour and Daniel, why don't you go to the library and prepare some background material. And Keith, you and Maureen can start brainstorming and outlining our new book "The Children Who Stayed Behind."
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More articles by this author, Tony Zurlo
To conceal from editors his age, gender, size, race, religion, politics, and other private predispositions, Tony Zurlo survives folded up in a back room in Arlington, Texas, working on Alice in Cyberland, his anxiously-awaited history about 21st century American foreign policy.
