How to Know You're Committing a War Crime

President Bush urged Congress today to pass so-called "Terror Legislation" that would, among other things, clarify the torture techniques CIA torturers can use when (not) torturing suspected terrorists.

It turns out that said torturers must now abide by Common Article 3 of the Geneva Convention. That's because of a recent Supreme Court ruling, not because of long-standing international treaty obligations.

But Common Article 3 is, like, a total confusion-fest! Bush did some serious brow-furrowing while explaining it:

"And that Common Article 3 says that, you know, There will be no outrages upon human dignity. It's like -- it's very vague. What does that mean, outrages upon human dignity ? That's a statement that is wide open to interpretation."

Seriously! What the heck is an outrage upon human dignity? It could be ANYTHING! Next time someone stands on the left while riding an escalator in DC, I will most certainly shout,

"Sir, you have committed an outrage upon human dignity! You're in violation of Common Article 3 of the Geneva Convention! Out of my way!"

That dickhead will get tried for war crimes! But seriously, this is one vague law. President Bush, what can we do?

"And what I'm proposing is that there be clarity in the law so that our professionals will have no doubt that that which they're doing is legal...the standards are so vague that our professionals won't be able to carry forward the program, because they don't want to be tried as war criminals. They don't want to break the law."

That sounds reasonable. But I've got some simple advice that might make major new legislation unnecessary. Here it is:

If you think you might be committing a war crime, you probably are.

Write it down on a piece of paper, stick it in your pocket. Hold on to it for when you need it. Next time your shoving bamboo spikes through the fingernails of some Islamic fundamentalist and suddenly ask yourself,

"Is this a war crime?"

Take out the piece of paper, open it up and read it. Take a break. Get a glass of water. Grab a bite to eat. Then go back to your Islamic Fundamentalist's urine-soaked Egyptian prison cell and brainstorm up some new ideas.

You never know what you'll come up with when brainstorming.

On the Road

I'll be blogging intermittently this week, as I am on the road. Want to know where I am? I'll give you a hint. It's not Arkansas.

Don't despair, POP POP BANG will be back on a regular basis next week.

Guerilla Speed Dating

Last Saturday, I took my lady out for a nice night on the town.

When that didn't work, I took her to the Raven.

We ordered up a nice pair of High Life's and sat back to enjoy the watered-down flavor. Not long after sitting down we noticed a pair of attractive women sit down uninvited in a nearby booth occupied by two young men. The guys seemed a little surprised, as if thinking, "but we didn't even have to try!"

They carried what seemed to be a nice conversation for about three minutes. Then a third girl ran over and shouted, "Time!"

The two women immediately switched places in the booth and began talking with their new respective prey. The guys didn't even flinch. My girlfriend and I couldn't figure out what was going on. Then after a few more minutes the third girl came back and shouted, "Time!" Then all three women got up and walked away.

The guys turned back to their drinks and went on talking as if nothing had happened.

A little later two other guys ordered drinks and stood just in front of our table. The same two women rushed up and started talking to them. One of the guys seemed really interested in one of the women, but the other guy kept looking at his guy friend as if to say either, "this girl isn't my type" or "you're more of my type."

After two minutes, the same third girl ran up and shouted "Time!". They switched. The guys looked really confused but kept talking with the girls. Then the girl came back and they all left. The guys seemed heartbroken. These weren't hunky studs. Just skinny indie boys.

I leaned over and asked, "hey, do you know those girls?"

"No, they just came up to us," one of them responded. "Then this other girl came and shouted time and then they left. It was really weird."

"They just did the same thing to another couple of guys," I said while smiling.

They didn't seem amused. After a half-hour or so the three women found another group of guys to experiment on.

I said to my girlfriend, "It's got to be guerilla speed dating." She agreed but wanted to know more. Could it be that they were trying to get back at all the skeezy men who hit on girls for sex? Are they trying to take the initiative and make the men feel uncomfortable for once? If so, this was the wrong crowd. I doubt any of the men in that bar had ever initiated a conversation with someone of the opposite sex in their life.

After the latest round of speed dating ended, my girlfriend walked over to ask the girls about their operation.

"We're the DC Ambush Speed Dating Team!" they said.

We went on to learn that this enterprising group of friends felt that dating had become too "corporate". Why do people need to shell out money to private businesses just to talk to potential mates? Why not just go up to people at random?

Why not indeed. So, if at some point you're casually sipping on a beer at a DC bar and a pair of women swoop in, charm you off your feet and then walk away, don't feel bad. It's anti-corporate.

Lawyers Aren't Your Friends

Lawyers are a shifty bunch.

I was standing outside a court room today, as I often do, when a pair of well-dressed men came rushing out to talk. They carried on what should have been a private conversation right next to me:

"Well listen Bill, my client told me she did it, then changed her story," said lawyer #1.

"Yeah, my guy is pretty much the same," said lawyer #2.

"If you go for this settlement, I have to tell you...well listen. I'm doing this for free."

"You are?"

"Yeah, it's my barbers daughter. The guy just died of cancer. I'm doing this at no charge. So I have to tell you, if she goes for this, I'm pretty sure she won't be able to pay."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. But look, she's going to say that she was going about 50 miles an hour and went around him when they hit."

"That's exactly what my client is going to say. All right, look. I'll call him."

"You sure you don't want to talk this over with him in private?"

"No, it's no problem. He'll go for it"

These two idiots confirmed every one of my worst fears. Lawyers dole out justice like playing cards. They talk about golf swings and country clubs, then figure out how many years you'll get at Rikers while they sip on Chai Lattes.

I expect the FBI will bust down my door any day now. I haven't done anything wrong, but I've watched way too many episodes of OZ to feel safe. Now I've got to worry about some public defender (metaphorically) shiving me in the back.

My only recourse is to start boning up on law books like that guy in that movie with Ben Affleck. The one set in Boston with the Irish girlfriend who was really hot back then but not so much now. Something about Guffman. Or Forester.