Let others explain why the president has to “re-certify” the deal every 90 days. Let others explain why they believe America should remain in the deal even though one and all agree it was probably the single worst deal ever crafted by America’s State Department. Let others explain how the president can crumple the whole thing, like a blowtorch crumples a cobweb. I just want to talk about feelings.
And it feels absolutely great!
For the first time in memory the president of the United States took the measure of a dictatorship, the way Sir Winston Churchill took the measure of Adolf Hitler, and shattered all the delicate diplomatic glassware in the house as he rightfully and righteously called the regime of Iran a murderous gang of terror-supporting tyrants.
Among the blessings of being an American is never having to cleanse your soul of everything that shaped it. Imagine being a young German in 1945 and trying to reorient yourself away from your passions and pledges of the Hitler Youth. Or imagine being Japanese in that same year, trying to digest the fresh fact that your “God-Emperor” was no longer “God”!
Being the American-style of good-guy relieves you of the need for any such excruciation. It’s a nice, clean, vibrant, wholesome, good feeling!
To get the full scope of that feeling, let’s go back before the reigning mullahs overthrew the shah in 1979. The shah fell, but not because he was repressive. The shah fell because he overdid things like sending young Iranians to places like America and Britain to get educated. Instead, they got radicalized and turned on him and gave their nation over to this pack of thugs.
Take the disgusting and now-discredited foolhardiness of former Secretary of State John Kerry. He must have felt like a diplomatic Rambo with his historic “deal.” What eluded him was how easy it is to have a pack of mullahs lift you up and carry you around the burnt dried sassafras root at your feet. All you have to do is give everything away!
Maybe you have better ears than I do, but I haven’t heard one single word of contradiction when President Trump characterizes Kerry’s and Obama’s deal as Washington’s worst ever. Nobody rises to cry foul and point out the good side of the deal, because there simply was none.
And while Secretary of State Kerry was dreaming of Nobel Prizes or White Houses, a group of Iranian naval troops drew a lightning surrender from a boatload of American sailors who were taken prisoner and subjected to every humiliating stunt their captors’ blunted minds could confect. And what did the Iranians reap from this stupid insult to our great democracy? A note from Kerry, believe it or not, thanking the Iranians for their “professional” treatment of their American captives!
President Trump went out of his way to praise the history and culture of the old Iran. There were many great and proud achievements of that once-upon-a-time Iran. And there was a fleeting chance that the old Iran might stage a comeback, and this time as a real democracy. In 2009 the young people of Iran had the mullahs on the ropes. That “Green Revolution” could have gone either way. The leaders of the rebellion cried out to Washington, but not for American-boots-on-the-ground and not for American weapons. All they wanted was a word of moral support from the Free World’s leader at the time, President Barack Obama. Such support was never forthcoming, and those courageous enough to rise up against evil paid a terrible price.
The current Iran is the one that broke every law of civilized international behavior by invading the U.S. Embassy in Teheran and holding over 50 of our diplomats hostage for over a year. That we remember. What we forget is how and why that outrage ended. Those Americans were hastily released on Jan. 20, 1981, as President Jimmy “Let’s Play Nice” Carter was handing power over to Un-Mistreatable President Ronald Reagan. That lesson reminds one of the late comic Jerry Clower’s story about the self-declared tough-guy who barged into the private lounge at a nightclub where the performers and band members were relaxing.
“I’m making a list!” he yelled out, brandishing a pad and pencil. “I’m making a list of everybody I can whup.” He then proceeded to go from person to person, declaring, “OK, I know good and well I can whup you real good,” while demanding the startled person’s name. It was a smooth, blitz-like operation. He’d guarantee he could whup everybody, and he methodically collected their names for his list.
The saxophone player, who’d given the thug his name seconds before, apparently came to his senses and loudly announced, “Just a doggone minute now! I’m not so sure you really can whup me!”
“Is that so?” asked the intruder. “You say you’re not sure I can whup ya?” “No,” asserted the sax player. “I’m not exactly a pushover, ya know. There’s guys that can whup me, but I’m not at all sure that you’re one of ’em! Whaddya gonna do about that?”
“What am I gonna do about it?” responded the tough-guy, growing red in the face. “I’ll just show you what I’m gonna do about it! I’m gonna just cross your name off my list!”