I’ve been trying not to think about the big party some Secret Service boys threw with the local prostitutes in Cartagena Colombia and think about the future of American Chinchilla farming instead, or the environment but it is hard to put tropical sex out of your mind. Besides-- the environmental impact was slight, a few sheets and towels at most.
Our guys with the really dark sun glasses and black suits went to Cartagena to scout out the area before President Obama was to arrive a week later. No doubt the stress of operating in a tropical resort environment created a need to bond with some locals and swap jokes---Colombians tell the same jokes about Norwegians that Americans use to tell about Polish people—and they were all very happy about the FTA (free trade agreement) and thought they’d test the process out. But there was a misunderstanding about phasing out tariffs for goods and services and a prostitute thought it was $47 and an American agent thought it was $42 and the police were called and now the secret service man is listening to his wife’s divorce lawyer explain why the wife is getting the house and the Volvo. Free trade has it’s pitfalls.
And that is about all we know except one Secret Service man is believed to have said “My life is ruined.” Which is the type of thing a good Protestant American boy should say after he has gotten drunk, had sex with a potential spy and perhaps compromised the safety of the American president. It shows good manners. You can’t have international sex with a complete stranger on company time and then say “I have a nutrition problem”. You’re pretty much expected to squat by the fire, rock back and forth and scrape yourself with pottery shards and ashes.
Many people feel the need to go somewhere else to misbehave. I am a Baptist and therefore all forms of joy are suspect such as when my brethren tell me they are going to vacation in Cancun or the Bahamas supposedly for the gentle tropical breezes. “Gentle breezes for what?” one must ask. Ha! Wild sex, most likely.
This is one area of life American writers need to explore. You read about the secret service and their professional reputation and you think “They would never do such a reckless thing as that. No way, no how, no no no!” And so you write a story and attempt to create understanding by putting the reader into bed with the prostitute and write it as though the secret service agent was full of patriotism and sacrifice while his pants and drawers lay scattered on the floor of a five star hotel room. Remember to use plenty of verbs.
But this is what happens to a nation that has excused moral responsibility and bad behavior for so long the cancer has eaten it’s way to the top of what was once the very best. God is not mocked and the age of these men indicate they are the first products of that time when this nation first told God to get out of our schools and our laws.
Such behavior defies reasoning. I’m reminded of the time I was nine, tied a towel to my neck for a cape and jumped off the top corner of the house to fly like Superman. I landed in an old rose bush and was scratched badly and twisted an ankle. My mother heard my screams and ran outside but stopped short upon seeing I was still alive and said, “What in the world were you thinking?”
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