POSSUM-BILITIES
Silly as he could be, Kelly had a serious side. Political commentary on nuclear weapons was a recurring theme in Kelly’s work. His G.O. Fizzickle Pogo book was based on the “International Geophysical Year,” an international scientific effort that lasted from June 1957 to December 1958 and included discoveries about the deep sea and the launch of the Soviet satellite Sputnik I. Chapters in Kelly’s book included “The Defense of Utter Space” and “A Mine Shaft to the Moon,” and one storyline features the animals trying to explore the world.
In some cases, Kelly’s political messages are enduring. Pogo’s most famous quote is, “We have met the enemy, and he is us,” which originally appeared in a strip Kelly wrote about pollution. Kelly took the line from Naval Captain Oliver Perry’s 1813 message to then-U.S. Army General (and future U.S. president) William Henry Harrison after the Battle of Lake Erie: “We have met the enemy, and he is ours.” Pogo’s version is often resurrected by environmentalists as a rallying cry.
And if that weren’t enough to make Pogo and Walk Kelly worthy of a Golden Plunger, many famous cartoonists cite the strip as an influence, particularly in the art of combining comics with satire. From Jim Henson of Muppets fame to Garry Trudeau (Doonesbury), Bill Watterson (Calvin and Hobbes), and even Shoe’s Jeff MacNelly, graphic artists bow down before the brilliance of Walt Kelly.
A LOT OF MALARKEY
In 1953, Kelly took his political humor even farther. That year, he introduced a bobcat, Simple J. Malarkey, who was based on right-wing Senator Joseph R. McCarthy. The stand was brave—McCarthy never shied away from accusing creative types of being communists and hauling them before Congress to defend themselves. When media lashed out against Kelly, the cartoonist had Malarkey wear a paper-bag mask. Kelly survived the backlash and was emboldened by it. Over the years, he went on to skewer J. Edgar Hoover, Spiro Agnew, Nikita Khruschev, Fidel Castro, and Richard Nixon. And he didn’t quit there.
Kelly the satirist was matched by Kelly the professional. He knew some newspapers would hate his political strips, so he drew comics for those publications that featured white bunnies taking part in harmless, apolitical antics. He told readers that if they saw the bunnies they should try to find the “real” strip in a different paper.
In 1952, Kelly decided that having Pogo “run” for president made as much sense as some of the real candidates did. According to the Web site IGoPogo.com, most of Kelly’s pretend “Pogo for President” press releases “make more sense than the current presidential candidate statements.” And although Kelly remained a liberal who voiced his views through the mouths, maws, and beaks of his creations, with “Pogo for President,” he tried to show readers how comical all the human frontrunners were, regardless of party affiliation.
Today, Walt Kelly’s daughter, Carolyn Kelly, administers his estate. Not only is there a 2008 “I Go Pogo” campaign, but there’s an annual “Pogofest” in Waycross, Georgia, where Pogo was named the state’s “ofishul” possum.
TAKING BACK TEXAS
Joining Pogo in the realm of unlikely candidates for public office is Richard S. “Kinky” Friedman, whose unsuccessful but lively 2006 Texas gubernatorial run resulted in lots of extra publicity for the singer, songwriter, novelist, humorist, and former Texas Monthly columnist. His original platform was “The Dewussification of Texas,” with slogans that included the says-it-all “Why the hell not?”
But Friedman’s laissez-faire campaign strategy has some hardcore beliefs behind it. He supports higher pay for teachers, alternative fuel development, and gay marriage. (“I believe they have a right to be as miserable as the rest of us,” he told an AP reporter.) He’s against illegal immigration, capital punishment, and smoking bans. (He likes to quote Mark Twain: “If smoking is not allowed in heaven, I shall not go.”)
Until the next campaign, Friedman remains happily ensconced on his family farm outside Kerrville, Texas, where he writes quirky mystery novels (with a suspiciously Kinky-esque protagonist named Kinky Friedman) and keeps an eye on his animal rescue ranch.
THE GOAT BUSTERS AWARD
Buzkashi
Sports fans—especially fans of hockey and rugby—would really enjoy a
buzkashi match. Uncle John hopes that giving this little-known game
an award will inspire a major television network to pick it up—it’s
a lot more interesting than many of the reality shows
crowding the airwaves.
KHAN-TACT SPORT
In the organized chaos of this spirited Middle Eastern game, bones will be broken, teams will be mixed up, and sometimes a carcass-bearing team leader will gallop off the field and into the path of oncoming traffic. The players and their mounts keep going, though, in spite of honking horns and swerving cars. Welcome to Afghanistan’s national sport . . . buzkashi!
Buzkashi began in the days of Genghis Khan (using a skull as a ball), and not in Afghanistan but on Central Asia’s steppes. These wide-open prairies provided the perfect playing fields for the freewheeling game. It probably started as a hunting method, since chasing goats on horseback was more efficient than trying to run after them on foot, but it certainly derived some of its violent aspects from the mounted warfare of ancient times.
Buzkashi came to Afghanistan in the 1950s as a favorite of King Zahir Shah, the country’s last king, who loved the game. His government-hosted tournaments made it the “national game,” and when the Soviets invaded Afghanistan in 1979, Shah’s buzkashi riders were among the warriors who defended the country. When the communists seized power in 1979, the game’s leaders went underground, and it became part of the rebel mujahideen culture. When the Taliban took over in 1996, its leaders banned buzkashi. But after that regime’s 2001 fall, the game returned and spread nationwide again.
GOATBUSTERS
Buzkashi is played on horseback, like polo, but that’s where the similarities end. Buzkashi means “goat grabbing” in Afghanistan’s Dari language, and the boz or goat carcass (often a calf) acts as the ball. The playing field ranges from dry, cracked mud flats to rocky promontories.
The original game was more free-ranging and could last for days or even weeks. Today’s version has (roughly) a one-hour limit. Around 60 players are divided into six or more teams. Each player wears a short, padded leather tunic or coat (chapan, hence the riders’ name of chapandaz), which makes it almost impossible for spectators and players to figure out who is on what side, adding to the chaotic fun.
A buzkashi match takes some advance preparation. Someone needs to butcher a goat, remove its head and hooves, and soak it overnight in cold water to toughen the carcass. The innards are also removed, and if necessary, the carcass is filled with sand so that it weighs at least 80 pounds. Then, voila—a boz . . . er, ball!
LET THE GAME BEGIN
To begin, the “ball” is placed in a shallow, specially dug pit centered in the starting area, called the “Circle of Justice.” From there, the rules and game play of buzkashi range from violent to more violent. Although the rules state that no foul play is allowed, lashing competitors doesn’t seem to count. Once a player has snatched up the boz, he will be surrounded by other players on horseback, each clenching a short rawhide whip. The whips are used continuously against the other riders, and few players leave a match without facial slashes and burns. The more scars on a player’s face and body, the more respected he is. And it’s not just the whips that do damage: if the game is played near a river, riders have sometimes conspired to drown their opponents. But the whips aren’t the biggest danger in buzkashi—the horses are. Most horses stop at obstructions by instinct, but a buzkashi horse is trained to keep going and trample over any obstacle, including humans. It’s common for players to suffer broken limbs, and sometimes people even die. The horses belong to tribal commanders who organize and sponsor the competitions. The more people who attend a game, the more powerful the commander is, and a buzkashi match is mostly an opportunity to flaunt his authority
.
FOXY CHAMPIONS
Chapandaz (or riders) compete only four months per year, but they earn enough prize money to live until the next season. The winner of the match also receives the boz. After all of the hits, the meat is very tender. And winners get prizes like new tunics and turbans. The ultimate prize, though, is having a long enough career to be awarded a fox-trimmed turban (the fox symbolizes cunning). The game-toughened riders who sport this distinctive headgear are revered figures in Afghan society. Eat your heart out, Beckham!
A “BONEHEAD” MISTAKE
The Cubs weren’t always unlucky. In 1908, they received one of the luckiest breaks in baseball history. On September 23 of that year, the Cubs were playing the New York Giants. In the bottom of the 9th inning, the score was tied 1–1. Infielder Fred Merkle came up to bat with two outs and one man on base. Merkle hit a single. The next batter went up and hit another single. The runner on second made it to home to score the winning run, and Merkle, thinking the game was over, went to celebrate with his team—without ever touching second base. The Cubs’ second baseman grabbed the ball and stepped on second base to force out Merkle, which disqualified the winning run. There was so much confusion (fans had stormed onto the field to celebrate) that the game was ruled a tie. The Cubs ended up winning the National League pennant that year by one game . . . over the second-place Giants. The mistake earned Merkle the nickname “Bonehead.”
THE “DON’T MESS WITH ME” AWARD
Civil War Surgeon Mary Walker
To receive an award and lose it must be incredibly painful (which is why Uncle
John vows never to revoke a Golden Plunger). But to receive an award,
have the government threaten to take it away, and then face down
the Feds with a shotgun . . . now that’s something to talk about!
BADGE OF HONOR
The Congressional Medal of Honor is the highest award the U.S. government can give to a soldier. It’s meant for a member of the military who distinguishes himself “conspicuously by gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States.”
The award was supposed to go just to military personnel for war service, but historically, presidents have given the medals to civilians (Buffalo Bill Cody got one) or to soldiers who distinguished themselves, but not necessarily in war (29 men got Medals of Honor for acting as guards at President Lincoln’s funeral).
In 1917, the government reviewed the medals they’d awarded and decided to revoke 911 of them as ineligible because they did-n’t meet the requirements. (Buffalo Bill and the Lincoln soldiers lost theirs.) And the government didn’t just strike the names from its list either; members of the Army went door to door and took the medals back.
One woman, Civil War Assistant Surgeon Mary Walker, refused to give hers up. Despite her valiant service as an Army surgeon, Walker did not technically qualify because she hadn’t “engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States.” However, when federal marshals arrived at Walker’s door to take her Medal of Honor, she met them wearing it around her neck and brandishing a 12-gauge shotgun. Evidently the weapon spoke volumes, because Walker kept her medal and wore it every day until she died two years later.
THE DOCTOR IS IN
Walker had always been feisty. Born into a family of freethinkers in rural New York, she often wore “bloomers” (a scandalous skirt-and-pants outfit designed by feminist Amelia Bloomer) and once declared, “Corsets are coffins!” She also prided herself on being arrested many times for wearing men’s clothes in public.
Walker went to college and then medical school, and in 1855, she became the second woman (after Elizabeth Blackwell) to graduate from Syracuse Medical College. Afterward, she married fellow student Albert Miller (and wore pants and a dress coat to the ceremony) but kept her own name (naturally). Mary and Albert set up a medical practice in Rome, New York, but the locals weren’t ready to accept a woman physician, so the practice eventually failed. So did the marriage—Mary and Albert divorced in the late 1860s.
WAR!
In 1861, when the Civil War broke out, Mary Walker was just 29 years old. She tried to join the Union Army but was denied a commission because of her gender. So she volunteered instead and became, first, a nurse and then an acting assistant surgeon—the first female surgeon in the U.S. Army. For almost two years, she worked on the Union front lines and then was appointed to the 52nd Ohio Infantry. (She may or may not have acted as a Union spy during this time, too. No one seems to be sure.)
In 1864, dressed in an officer’s uniform that she’d modified to fit her, Walker crossed into Confederate territory to treat civilians (or spy on the Confederate soldiers), and she ran right into a group of rebels. Their commanding officer captured her and sent her to jail in Richmond, Virginia. Four months later, Walker was released during a prisoner exchange—and was greatly pleased that she’d been traded “man for man” for a Confederate officer. She served out the rest of the war practicing medicine at a women’s prison in Kentucky and at an orphan’s home in Tennessee.
MEDALS SCHMEDALS
For her wartime service, Mary Walker was paid $766.16 and initially granted a monthly pension of $8.50, less than that of most war widows. (Eventually, her pension increased to a whopping $20 a month.) But President Andrew Johnson recognized her service and awarded her a Medal of Honor. All was well until the marshals knocked on her door in 1917.
When Mary Walker died in 1919, she still had her medal but she’d been removed from the government’s list of medal winners. Finally, in 1977, she was vindicated. President Jimmy Carter and an Army board reinstated the award, citing her “distinguished gallantry, self-sacrifice, patriotism, dedication, and unflinching loyalty to her country, despite the apparent discrimination because of her sex.” She remains the only woman ever to be so honored.
WAYS TO GO GREEN
There are lots of ways to make small but noticeable differences to help the environment:
• Only run the dishwasher when it’s full. Dishwashers use energy and water, but you actually use less water to wash a full load in the washer than to wash them by hand. The average dishwasher uses four gallons per load. Washing the same amount by hand would take almost 24 gallons.
• Wash clothes in cold water. It’s cheaper and 90 percent more efficient. Only 10 percent of the energy used to wash with warm water is used to power the washer. The rest goes to increase the water temperature.
• Unplug things you’re not using. Leaving appliances plugged in uses up a lot of juice. It’s been estimated that 75 percent of household energy usage goes to unused appliances.
• Turn the water off while you’re brushing your teeth. Leaving it on wastes about five gallons of water a day.
THE “AS SEEN ON TV” AWARD
The ThighMaster
The man who made the ThighMaster a household name
didn’t even invent it. This savvy businessman was in the
right place at the right time, and then he squeezed,
squeezed, and squeezed his way to millions.
ICONIC INFOMERCIAL
Prior to 1984, the FCC limited the amount of airtime broadcasters could give to commercials: 18 minutes an hour. After 1984, when that law changed, it paved the way for infomercials—long blocks of ads that can run half an hour or an hour. Infomercials became staples in the late-night hours, when viewership is low and ad rates are cheap.
The ThighMaster infomercial debuted in 1991, promising better-toned and attractive legs through the use of a remarkably simple contraption that used a steel coil to provide resistance training for the upper legs. The slam-dunk part of the ad was its spokeswoman: leggy, 1970s blonde bombshell Suzanne Somers. The ad opened with a close look at her long gams while an announcer (Somers’ husband, Alan Hamel) proclaimed, “Great legs! How’d you get ’em?” It turned out the world wanted to ask that question too—and the answer was available to
them for just $19.95 (plus shipping and handling).
Within two years, six million ThighMasters had been sold, and the man behind the infomercial, Peter Bieler, was on his way to making $100 million on the product. Bieler knew that infomercials were the way to advertise and make money. His formula for the right combination of attention-getting elements included: a good product that people wanted, a spokesperson viewers were interested in, and a not-subtle, tongue-in-cheek approach. Bieler was not the inventor of the ThighMaster, and how he found it is a tale itself.
THE BIRTH OF THE THIGHMASTER
A woman named Anne-Marie Bennstrom invented the device in the 1980s and called it the V-Bar. Bennstrom was a chiropractor and physical medicine therapist from Sweden, as well as a cofounder of The Ashram, a no-holds-barred weigh-loss retreat near Santa Monica, California. The Ashram attracts celebrities and the wealthy for its grueling programs that begin at 6:00 a.m. and involve rigorous weight training, mountain climbing, water exercises, and not very much food. Famous graduates of the course include Oprah Winfrey, Jane Fonda, and Shirley MacLaine.
Initially, the V-Bar was being used less for exercise and more as an aid for injured skiers, who could work their sore muscles with it. It was in that capacity that it came to the attention of Joshua Reynolds, heir to the R. J. Reynolds tobacco company. Reynolds is often mistakenly credited with inventing two things: the ThighMaster and the mood ring. In reality, he invented neither. He just knew a good product when he saw it. (He correctly predicted the mood ring fad of the 1970s and put them on the market quickly, which is why some people think he invented them.)
Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Golden Plunger Awards Page 31