Hugo Chavez is a popular dude and there's no doubt about it, and he's going places--for awhile, anyway.
His number is scribbled in Cindy Sheehan's grubby little address book, it appears in Harry Belafonte's calypso shirt pocket notes, and his number is a series of digital inputs in Mr. Jimmy Carter's Palm Pilot, which he happily beams to all and sundry on every plane flight to a fixed election he can book himself on. Mr. Peanut, you see, enjoys lending "credence" to elections where the results are pre-arranged.
Yep, Mr. Hugo Chavez's phone numbers are also in Mr. Fidel Castro's hydraulic pop-up desk assistant, which represents the height of Nikita Khruschev's Russian technological revolution to the aging dictator, including the space traveling dog, Laika, whose photo graces the green garrison capped dictator's wall, next to Mr. Chavez's likeness and that of a toothy Jimmy Carter, whose eerie grin is noticeable, even in darkness.
Of course, Mr. Evo Morales, Bolivia's newly elected Marxist President, has the number for Senor Chavez and is often on the phone, asking Hugo's lawyerly advice for his latest anti-capitalist program and his plans for an improved police state--when he's not asking for another petro-peso loan.
Everybody, it seems, is calling Mr. Chavez, even that madcap uranium digging Mr. ahmadinejad, who always tries to call collect, even when he's whining about that big F-16 buy out, and where are the spare parts, how do you do, and you ought to try Islam as a change of pace.
But Mr. Chavez is entirely too busy to have a go at the Koran and walking around the Kabaa' and all the folderol. He has grander things in mind, like a new american order, kicking the US in the teeth, selling oil to Fidel, entertaining the 20,000 Cuban secret police in Venezuela on "maneuvers," dining with socialist big-wigs, and making phone calls.
Sure, he'll put up with the antics of Ms. Sheehan and her "visits" and her hanging on him when he tries to toss off an anti-imperialist speech. But it's all part and parcel of keeping an open door for the needed publicity, and Cindy-girl brings her share of shutter bugs to compete with the anopheles mosquitoes plaguing his sodden atmosphere.
While his volunteer advisors, the hard-liners from the old days, the campesinos, cry, "go, man, go," the paid men, the advisors, are saying, "slow down." But Hugo, in a hurry to conquer all of the americas, must continue--full bore.
But there are some ugly smoke signals of decline clouding the once pristine horizons of socialist revolution.
Mr. Chavez, Lowell Ponte reports in FrontPage magazine.com, is literally throwing his oil money away, or, actually tossing it to Cuba, a poor credit risk, Nicaraguan villages who support the blundering Sandinistas, and, of course, to our home grown New England socialistas, like John Baldacci of Maine and Joe Delahunt of Massachusetts, leaving his own folks in the lurch, and allowing poverty to increase by 50% since he hooked the reins of state.
as the growing cancer of Mr. Chavez's police state continues to eat the country's people, and leftist criminal gangs murder and plunder the middle class at will, the police glibly sit on the sidelines, in a scale model of Buffalo Bob Mugabe's Zimbabwe--a man Chavez terms a "true freedom fighter," whose phone number can be found in the Baleful Peanut's PDa, under B, R, M and Z.
Hugo's increasing megalomania and madness were on full parade on his recent "trip" to Europe, where, sporting yellow slacks, Bermuda bucks, a straw boater, and sleeve garters, he described Prime Minister Tony Blair as "the main ally of Hitler," choosing, instead, to ham it up with "Red Ken" Livingstone, London's colorful mayor, over crofter's stew, chips, vinegar and a plum tart--washed down with Polar Beer, Venezuela's finest export cerveza.
and Mr. Chavez's fading red badge of approval seems to be sinking fellow travelers in the political ring as well, Mr. Ponte points out. The mere mention of his name helped put the skids on presidential contenders in Mexico and Peru. and in the latter country, the outgoing president, alejandro Toledo, told Mr. Chavez off in no uncertain terms and asked him to keep his check book and his cell phone at home.
It is said that Senor Chavez is a social democrat and if that is true, being one means coddling narco-terrorists, driving the Catholic Church out of large areas of the interior, suspending civil rights, censoring the press, packing the ballot box, pre-programming the electronic ballot counting machines, roughing up political opponents, providing funds to terrorists, non-stop propaganda from the television stations, and his packing the legislature with cronies and yes-men. In fact, he sounds like a hard-line Howard Dean Democrat.
and, as the country slouches toward economic chaos, the four key areas Mr. Chavez promised to stomp out when he was first elected to the presidency-- power, corruption, poverty and unemployment--remain on the upswing under his lengthy enlightened leadership.
But for Mr. Chavez, regardless of the setbacks, Cindy Sheehan calls incessantly to say she loves him, Belafonte still calls with messages of hope, and Jimmy Carter calls occasionally to inquire about the electronic ballot counting machines, sends his love, and says Rosalind says so, too.
Mr. Chavez has learned, however, to check the numbers on his mobile before he answers, and to keep an eye out for the Tehran exchange, Mr. ahmadinejad and his endless inquiries about the jets.
Maybe Mr. Clinton can arrange the spare parts and bets that Mr. Carter has his number, many people do.
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