Jimmy Carter

The men seated around the conference table stared at Jimmy Carter. Richard the Lion-Heart could have parachuted into the middle of their séance from the siege of Acre with a crossbow strapped to his back and would have caused less alarm. Mouths gaped open; eyes flickered with fear. Che Guevara was the first to recover. He smiled. He was Alfonso Bedoya in Treasure of the Sierra Madre. :”Ah, Senor Carter,” he said. “Mi amigos tell me you were Presidente of the United States. It is an honor to meet you.” The peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia, seemed embarrassed.

Okay, so he was in Yasser Arafat’s Fuhrerbunker. It was where he wanted to be, wasn’t it? It was where the Keepers of the Fleas hung out, where they kept the homing devices that controlled the Fleas from the Prophet’s Beard, fleas that were still alive after 1,400 years and still capable of spreading death, disease, destruction and ignorance across the world—the Fleas of the Islamic Apocalypse. He should have been happy.

Herbert London One might assume that standards which prevail on one part of the globe might be applied equally to another part of the world. One might assume as well that what is good for the goose might be good for the gander. Well you might assume that, but in contemporary life you would be wrong.