Thus the Times and other media outlets will start their war against the US military in Afghanistan. A front they would have opend long ago if it were not for the Iraq war.

We are not worthy.

The intercom buzzed insistently on the Pennsylvania Congressman’s ornate but cluttered desk.

“Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz” it went. “Bzzzzzzzzz…”

“Huh? Wha? I’m awake – I wasn’t asleep!” Jack “Pretty Boy” Murtha spluttered “I’m woikin’ on impordant legislation”.

“Congressman? Are you okay?” asked his secretary. “The delegation from the Japanese Embassy is here for your 4 pm meeting”.

“Wha? Nips, huh? So early in da day? Okay – gimme a minute and den send da slopes in”.

Pretty Boy tucked his shirt under his massive bellies and wiped his mouth on his tie. He spat on his hands and plastered his white hair into place. A quick glance in the mirror – “lookin’ good” – and then he was ready. The door opened… Oops –the bottle! He grabbed it and shoved it back in his desk drawer.

“Congressman? This is the delegation from the Embassy of Japan. Gentlemen, this is Congressman Murtha”.

“Hey, fellas. What’s the good word? How youse doin’?”

“We are doing most werr, esteemed Murtha-san, sank you” hissed the lead Nip. “I am Mitsubishi Toyota, Assistant Underr-Secletaly for North Amelican Affairs. These are my correagues, Mr Sony and Mr Nakajima. Gleetings”.

“Same ta youse” said Pretty Boy, crushing each of the Asiatic’s delicate hands in his own meaty paw. “Have a seat. Make yourselfs comfordable. Now – what can I do for youse fellas?”

Mr Toyota cleared his throat. “It has to do with the matter of Okinawa” he said. “The Emperor of the Chrysanthemum Throne and his ministers have ristened with intelest and glowing concern to your lecent suggestions concerning the ‘re-deproyment’ of US forces to Japanese tellitoly”.

“Jap territory?” said Pretty Boy. “I neva said nuthin’ aboud dat. I said Okinawa”.

“The irland of Okinawa is Japanese tellitoly, Murtha-san. The 159 irlands, part of the Ryuku chain, form my countly’s southernmost Plefecture”.

“Youse has godda be kiddin’! No way! It’s right here on da map”. Pretty Boy pointed to a spot on the inflatable plastic globe which adorned his desk.

“Forgive me, Murtha-san. That is Belgium”.

“Oh. Over here den”.

“Zambia”.

“Here?”

“The mountain kingdom of Andorra”.

“Here?”

“Colorado”.

“Oh. Okay, so what? Youse didn’t come here ta give me no geography lesson”.

“You speak the stlaightfolward truth, Murtha-san, as is your wont. His Majesty is most concerned by your suggestions and their imprications for our countly. It is his plofound desire that some way may be found to ameriolate your ploposals”.

“Huh?”

“Change your mind, conglessman. His Majesty hopes that you may…”

“I ged it, I ged it” said Pretty Boy. “But I’m warnin’ youse –changin’ my mind don’t come cheap”. The veteran lawmaker rubbed thumb and forefinger busily together.

“We undelstand perfectry, Murtha-san. We are aware of your personar leputation for plobity, or the absence thereof; we have discussed you with our Middre Eastern correagues and I berieve we will be abre to successfurry addless your requilements”.

“Youse ain’t cops, is youse?” demanded Pretty Boy. “Cause if youse is, and I axe you, youse’ve gotta say so straight. Dat’s da law!”

“We are not ‘clops’, Murtha-san” said Mr Toyota. “You may quiet your mind on that point”.

“No hidden mikes? No cameras? I almosd got stung once before like dat”.

“No, Murtha-san. Prease; I assure you”.

“Good. Okay. So whad’s up?”

Mr Toyota spoke sharply in his own language and his two assistants silently donned sunglasses and placed dish clothes over their heads. They placed their gleaming briefcases on their knees, opened them –click click – and spun them around so that Pretty Boy could see the contents. His little red piggy eyes widened.

“Wow!”

Mr Toyota smiled. “Yerrs, Murtha-san –‘wow’ indeed. I tlust it wirr be possiberr to achieve a mutuary enabring concordance?”

“Hey, I’ll say” said Murtha. “I’ll say. Now youse guys are talkin’ my langwitch”!