I'm Back for More Cash

by Tony Kornheiser

  I’m probably hopelessly old-fashioned, but I go to a supermarket to buy stuff. Is it so hard to understand that if my main purpose in pushing this dopey shopping cart around was to seek conviviality, I wouldn’t be carrying a 25-cents-off coupon for Sani-Flush? If you want to know my position on the medical and athletic ethics of a power hitter’s use of androstenedione to build muscle mass and create an advantage that enables him to slug balls farther and harder than anybody in history, call me. But as long as I’m on the checkout line, do me a favor and get me out of the store before my Chubby Hubby ice cream melts, okay?

  A Sorry Situation

  I am feeling very positive right now, very upbeat. The week didn’t start out so joyously. Oh, no. The spy plane thing was very ominous. We couldn’t make any progress with China. They insisted that we apologize for spying on them, and we insisted that we never apologize—and as proof we cited NBC continuing to show XFL games on prime time.

  But things are much better now. We’ve gotten our people back. (And we didn’t have to tie the pandas to a tree and threaten to turn them into “the other, other white meat” to do it.) We wrote a letter to China that smoothed everything over.

  The trick was to convince the Chinese we were sorry without actually using the words “We apologize.” We solved this semantic dilemma by using “the Eskimo analogy.” In native Eskimo dialects there are nine hundred words for “snow.” Each distinct. Each with a different nuance. To solve the China crisis, we needed to come up with a word that in translation would convey our apologies to China, without explicitly sounding in English like “We apologize.” Our linguists were able to come up with an exact match: “Boo-yah!” So every time we wanted the Chinese to believe we apologized, we wrote, “Boo-yah!” This made the Chinese very happy. When the letter was read aloud on American television, it sounded like another edition of Sports Center—and won the time slot among the target demo of males eighteen to twenty-five:

  “We’re truly sorry. We have profound Boo-yah! We feel awful. Honestly, we couldn’t feel worse. We are beside ourselves with Boo-yah! Can we get you something? Some tea? A cookie? We feel positively miserable. C’mon, eat something. Moo shu pork?

  “We weren’t spying on you. It was a surveillance plane. We were surveilling you. You know, like they do on the ground when one guy stands in the middle of the road and looks through a small telescope mounted on a tripod, and three other guys hold up traffic in both directions for three hours. Surveilling, surveying—whatever. It was like that. Except in the air, with twenty-four people running a billion dollars’ worth of ultrasensitive electronic equipment aimed at getting high-resolution magnetic imaging of all your military equipment. But, no, it wasn’t spying. Why would we spy on you guys? We like you. We think of you as just like us, except with bad haircuts.

  “Can we have our plane back now?

  “What could you possibly want with it? It has no speed at all. It has propellers, for crying out loud. It can’t outrun the Goodyear blimp! (Tell the truth: The reason you like it so much is because it looks like something Mao flew in, right?)

  “Did we say we were Boo-yah?

  “Terribly sorry. We’re so sorry, Uncle Albert. We’re so sorry if we’ve caused you any pain. We’re Boo-yah for what happened to your pilot. We’re Boo-yah for landing on your soil without getting verbal permission. (Though it’s not like we had a lot of options. We were in a plane that was flying without a nose cone, thanks to your guy, Wang Wei Corrigan. Where’d he learn to fly, Home Depot?) We’re unbelievably sorry. We’re sorry for Chun King frozen dinners. We’re sorry for Jackie Chan movies. We’re sorry for that whole David Carradine kung fu thing; that was lame. Me, personally, I regret watching Lucy Liu on Ally McBeal.”

  So the spy thing is settled. But as good as that is, that’s not the best news. The best news was the front-page story on how human fat cells can be transformed into muscle cells and other kinds of useful cells. Researchers found that greasy, yellow gobs of fat extracted during liposuction could be turned into healthy, productive cartilage, muscle, and bone. I think the headline was something like HEY, CARNIE, YOUR SHIP JUST CAME IN.

  (This was reported in the current issue of the journal Tissue Engineering. I hate myself for letting my subscription lapse. I’m such a dope; I signed up for Modern Capillaries.)

  If I understand this correctly, it means: The fatter you are, the more you can serve your fellow man. Well, I got a 39 waist. I got fat up the gazoo. You’re looking at Albert Freakin’ Schweitzer here. I could get the Nobel prize in liposuction. Plug in the hose and Hoover me, baby.

  Since the surgery is charitable in nature, I figure it should not only be deductible, I’m thinking The Washington Post might give me matching funds!

  Wait, it gets better. The story says that if fat cells live up to their potential, “their first application will probably be for space-filling jobs, such as plumping up wrinkles, or enlarging breasts.”

  I can help Britney Spears!

  Is this a great country, or what?

  This is so mind-blowing. To think all those Double Cheeseburgers I’ve eaten would make me, in essence, a philanthropist; to think that saying, “… and super-size it!” would be a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done. I mean, who knew?

  I feel like Mother Teresa.

  Excuse me for a second. “Hey, somebody bring me some more Häagen-Dazs. I’ve got the Lord’s work to do here.”

  From now on, there’ll be no hesitation. I’ll say it proudly: “Extra cheese.”

  The one thing I don’t understand is: If they can take the fat out of your body and turn it into muscle somewhere else, why can’t they just give you a shot of something and turn the fat inside your body into muscle right there? Like—poof!—one minute you’re scarfing down a hot fudge sundae, and the next minute you’ve got rock-hard abs. It’s science at its best.

  Denise Austin, you’re toast. Speaking of which, make mine with butter.

  Love at First Buck

  Forget Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. We’ve just seen an even greater moment on TV.

  It came near the end of Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire?, the megahit where a rich dork got to choose his bride from among fifty hopeful contestants who paraded before him in bathing suits—and basically guaranteed to boink his brains out at the end of the show if he picked them.

  But, Tony, none of the women KNEW him. They didn’t even SEE him until the end of the show.

  And your point is?

  Anyway, the moment I loved was right before the multimillionaire made his selection—when the field had been winnowed to five—and each woman was given a chance to make a final appeal to become his arm-candy missus. And one said, “I think people have been overemphasizing the monetary aspect here. This is not about money. It’s about the search for a meaningful relationship.”

  Excuse me???

  Wait. Let me list everything these women knew about this man.

  1. He had oodles of money.

  2. See No. 1.

  Our multimillionaire picked a blonde with washboard abs, who promised, “I’ll be your friend, your lover, your partner. You’ll never be bored.”

  I suspect she had him at “lover.”

  We saw their entire courtship, all thirty seconds of it. The only thing we missed was when she signed the prenup. Oh, grow up! Of course she did. I assume it was during a commercial.

  They were married on the set by some judge from Las Vegas. (You were expecting an emissary from the Vatican?) As the bride and groom exchanged rings, the judge said, “The rings represent your love … they show your commitment.”

  Commitment? They didn’t even know each other’s last names! They didn’t have time for love at first sight. They could only squeeze in love at first si—

  Hello? You’re getting married here, not changing long-distance carriers.

  I give this marriage a real good chance.

  It should last at least until tomorrow afternoon at 2:00
(1:00 Central).

  Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire? is the most grotesque, degrading show I have ever seen—worse than anything Geraldo Rivera could come up with even with full cooperation from the cast of Baywatch. I can’t stress enough the baseness of this show. It is humiliating to both men and women. (Have I left anyone out? Shamu, perhaps?) It’s scabby even for Fox, if that’s possible.

  And it is brilliant.

  Like everyone else watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, I missed the first hour of Multi. I tuned in to see a parade of babes in bikinis and a guy looking through a peephole as though it were some “live sex” joint on Forty-second Street. I knew this was the kind of quality family entertainment I’d been crying out for!

  Inevitably, the women answered dopey questions about themselves and their hopes for this “marriage.” I was praying just one woman would be honest enough to say, “I hope to file for divorce as quickly as the law allows, and soak this slob for half.” Alas … Not only was Diamond Jim judging their answers, but his friends and family were actually scoring them, as though it were round-by-round at a prizefight.

  The only woman I would have given a perfect 10 to was the one who ad-libbed, “You know where I’ll be.” I figured, yeaaahhh, baby, in the Ballroom, with the Lead Pipe.

  The host, Jay “Will It Happen for Me Like It Happened for Regis?” Thomas, was assisted by a woman with runaway breasts who looked as if she had accidentally yanked the “inflate” cartridge on her flotation vest. This turned out to be Miss America 1993, Leanza Cornett, who appears not to have missed many meals in the ensuing years.

  I listened to these women pooh-pooh the idea of marrying for money. (One woman said, “We’re all just people here,” and I felt like saying, “Okay, honey, marry a cab driver.”) The woman who eventually won was asked to picture their life together and she said with a straight face: “Quiet time by the fire. Me reading. Him doing what he wants.”

  What if what he wants to do is burn the money? How much would she enjoy spending quiet time on a subway grate?

  When it came time to meet Mister Multi, they showed a film and photograph montage that resembled a Viagra ad. He was described glowingly as a graduate of Penn State, a hockey player, a real estate mogul, and a motivational speaker, with homes in San Diego and Vancouver. In the flesh, he turned out to be a stocky, dweeby guy, the kind you knew ate paste as a boy. He actually said, “I feel really comfortable here. I know I’ve found my love tonight.” I found myself silently mouthing the phrase: tragic honeymoon accident.

  Tell me you’re not hoping to find out that Darva—that’s her name, Darva; it’s Hindu for “I Hit the Jackpot!”—has been married seven times before, and in each case her husband mysteriously died. Tell me you’re not hoping that Rick is a flimflam man with outstanding warrants in twenty-seven states. And gay.

  My kids asked me if I thought Darva might back out once she saw Rick.

  “What if he has bad breath?” my son asked.

  “You’d be amazed at how much mouthwash a million dollars can buy,” I said.

  “What if he’s really ugly?” my daughter asked.

  “Honey, not even Abe Vigoda in a cocktail dress is gonna scare Darva off.”

  Then Rick and Darva kissed, and I don’t know about you, but I could feel something in my loins. In my case, I was sitting on the clicker.

  I was moved by their sincerity—especially when Rick said, “The person I ask to marry me has my total commitment. Er, what’s your name again?”

  I’m sure it’s going to work.

  No, not the marriage. The show, stupid.

  A Saga with Staying Power

  It’s fifteen years from now. Elián “El Duque” González, now twenty-one years old, is getting ready to graduate from the University of Maryland, with a major in English.

  Yes, he’s still here.

  They’re ALL still here.

  The father, the father’s wife, the other son (now at St. Albans). Great-Uncle Lazaro, now a snowbird with condos in Opa-Locka and Scaggsville. Lazaro’s daughter, the bombshell Marisleysis—who is now calling herself “Skye” on Channel 7’s Eyewitness News, where she’s in the chopper doing traffic.

  Even the fisherman is still here. (Don’t ask.)

  It’s like the Partridge Family.

  Other Miami relatives drifted up over the years. They opened up a Cuban-Israeli restaurant in Bethesda called Havana-Gila.

  In Miami, the extended family owns and operates Elián’s World, a theme park built on a former toxic waste dump at the Dade-Broward line. The most popular attraction there is Janet Reno Land, home of the killer coaster Elián’s Wild Ride—a stomach-churning trip in the government van that whisked the boy away at the crack of dawn. At the end, you can pose for a souvenir photo with an animatronic Border Patrol agent threatening you at gunpoint. And don’t forget to visit the Dunk Janet booth at the Funhouse.

  Elián’s schoolmates from Cuba are still here, too. They came up to replicate his bucolic Cárdenas classroom and provide a bridge back to Cuban culture. Except nobody set foot on that bridge. One visit to Kings Dominion and they all applied for asylum.

  Everybody’s here.

  Even Fidel is here. The other day I saw him at the Connecticut Avenue Safeway poking through the kiwi fruit.

  Auntie Janet Reno wanted Elián to spend “quiet time” here. But it looks like Elián’s going to spend “till the end of time” here.

  You don’t really think Elián’s going back to Cuba, do you?

  Grow up.

  Why would his father take him back? Juan Miguel just won the lottery. He’s livin’ large at the Wye Plantation. True, he’s been on plenty of plantations before—only this time, he’s not chopping sugar cane.

  Whaddaya wanna do today, Juan Miguel, lounge by the pool or play thirty-six holes of golf?

  Sure, if he went back he’d get a hero’s welcome from Fidel. And then what? Pluck chickens? He can do that on the Delmarva and keep the SUV.

  Anyway, Elián has to remain here until an appeals court in Atlanta reaches a decision on the asylum claims filed on his behalf by his relatives. By the time it’s ready to render a decision Elián might be old enough to actually understand what “asylum” means.

  In the meantime he’s the hottest Cuban kid since Little Ricky Ricardo!

  There’ll be books, movies, CD-ROM games, TV deals, the Elián Collection at Target. He’ll become America’s Child. He’ll be sort of like ALF.

  At least at that point Elián will be earning his own money, and picking up the tab for his entourage. Because here’s what everyone wants to know now: WHO’S PAYING FOR THESE PEOPLE?

  Elián gets whisked out of Miami to Washington, and within hours his Miami relatives (plus the fisherman!) show up at the main gate at Andrews Air Force Base carrying Easter baskets. They stay in a Georgetown hotel. And every day the gossip columns report where they ate the night before and what kind of tip they left. They have to have racked up huge bills: airfare, hotels, meals; nets and lures for the fisherman. (Seriously, what is the deal with the fisherman? Okay, he saved the kid’s life. But what’s he doing in the closet? Is this some sort of ancient Cuban custom, that if someone pulls your nephew from the sea, he gets to live rent-free in your house? Now the fisherman—he’s really a guy who cleans houses, but “the Mopman” doesn’t resonate—the fisherman says he’s thinking about running for political office. Who does he think he is, Donald Trump?)

  And what’s the deal with Marisleysis? She’s on TV shrieking so much, I thought she was the Nanny! If I were Elián, I’d pay the INS to haul me away from her.

  We’ve all been subjected to Marisleysis’s conspiracy theory about how the sweet photos of Elián and Juan Miguel had to be “doctored,” because Elián’s hair in the picture was too long. Then, Marisleysis “demanded” a face-to-face meeting with Bill Clinton and Janet Reno. I mean, really, who died and made her Eleanor Roosevelt? Now she’s screaming that Elián is being brainwashed: “The
y’ve taken his mind! No one can tell me that Elián wants to leave America! No one!”

  Many of you may be thinking the same thing at this point: And they’re still not selling Valium over the counter?

  Elián González has turned our political system upside down. Republicans, who normally are the party of guns, are decrying the show of firepower used to pry Elián away from his lawbreaking relatives. While Democrats, who are normally the party of care and compassion, are defending the decision to send in an armed SWAT team to break down the doors at 5 A.M. on Easter weekend. Deliver me from that fat camera-hog senator from New Hampshire, Bob Smith, who squired Marisleysis, Lazaro, and the fisherman around Capitol Hill like prize poodles. Deliver me, too, from the mayor of New York calling the INS raid “storm-trooper tactics.” This from the guy whose crackerjack police force emptied their clips at an unarmed man after they confused his wallet for a gun. (I make that mistake all the time. When I go to pay my bill in a restaurant I often reach for my wallet—and shoot the waiter instead.)

  The truth is this whole thing has become less and less about little Elián, and more and more about big Janet Reno. She’s the lightning rod for all the debate. Right now Janet Reno is the most talked-about woman in the country.

  And, boy, is Darva jealous.

  Just Me and U-235

  Understandably, the U.S. government is upset about recent disclosures concerning lack of security at our nuclear research facilities, where our precious atomic secrets are leaking like duck sauce from a takeout container. Just last week, for instance, when the techs at Los Alamos had barely enough cash to cover the Domino’s special with mushrooms and extra cheese, they tipped the delivery guy about four pounds of plutonium in a silver suitcase.

  In the hysteria that has followed such revelations, U.S. officials have scrambled to institute tighter security measures. But it turns out that the weapons they’re most concerned about aren’t necessarily nuclear.