The Case of the Moby Donald
Aloha. There are those who think I went to Hawaii after Inaugural Day for the parasailing, zip-lining and spear fishing, my three favorite sports. Or that I was answering the call of the wild in me by whale watching in Oahu. No, I’m not one of those “Call me, Ishmael” guys. The thrill of saying “Thar’ she blows” at the blip on the water’s edge is not in the Kitman family DNA. As our great Republican President, Ronald Reagan, said about redwood trees, “ You seen one, you seen them all.”
Neither is the sudden disappearance of my timely prescient commentaries on the state of the nation a matter of being unable to stand the heat in the kitchen. Even though I happen to be one of the world‘s leading authorities on cowardice (See “The Coward’s Almanac, or The Yellow Pages,” by Marvin Kitman, Random House, 1975), I am not doing the ostrich bit keeping my head in the sands of Waikiki until its all over.
None of these things. I went to Hawaii to join the search for Obama’s birth certificate.
As a loyal Republican, I’m one of the millions of Americans who couldn’t believe a respected real estate developer like Donald Trump would not be telling the truth about Obama being a Muslim and born in Kenya. Honest Don stuck to that indisputable truth for seven years while the dishonest crooked horrible failing media implied that he was bonkers.
Then one day, as if out of the blue, candidate Trump conceded he may have misspoken for the last seven years about the sitting president’s legitimacy. As far as I was concerned, that one line confession on TV had to be the first example of fake news.
The Birther myth was the bedrock on which the man who would be making America Great Again established his qualifications for becoming the 45th president. It told the majority of the Electoral College, if not the people, he was the man who would make us safe. It was huge.
So what if this pile of rubbish that won the hearts of the immortal 39% turned out to be an alternate fact, or lie?
Two mitigating factors softened the blow of this shocking turn of fake news. If he had misspoke, he explained, it was all Horrible Hillary’s fault; she was the first to question Obama’s legitimacy. Secondly, his people were still digging in Hawaii.
I wanted to join the local patriots in the search.
Finding the former president’s real birth certificate—not the fake one he waved at the fake news media – would go down in history with the search for the Holy Grail and Trump’s IRS tax records.
It sounded to me like the hunt for Moby Donald was a case for Steve McGarrett, the detective captain heading the special wing of the Honolulu P. D., Hawaii Five-O. With the help of young Danny Williams, veteran Chin Ho Kelly and streetwise Kono Kalakaua, the squad had sharpened their investigative skills for 12 years, nailing international secret agents, arch criminals and organized crime syndicates. Looking for Moby Donald, the real birth certificate, would be a slice of pineapple for Captain McGarrett and his harpooners.
I’ll explain the M.O. in these kind of posthumorous cases later. Suffice it to say, the search will end with Jack Lord saying to James MacArthur, “Book’em, Danno.”
The charge: murdering the truth, an offense punishable to the full extent of the law, if the statute of limitations hasn’t run out on lying in fake news. It may no longer be indictable, since the practice of telling less than the truth is so widespread in America the beautiful, the home of the brave and true, the land where the liar is the king.
Failing this mission, I will be going to Sweden to look for Pres. Trump’s birth certificate. As he has written in his biography, the Trump family origin is in Sweden, even though his great grandfather Trumpft was a draft-dodging, illegal, undocumented, ship-jumping immigrant from Germany.
From time to time, while I’m involved in these pro bono public works, I will be sending out my usual e-columns, but in a less timely, more trustworthy form of communication than the fake news carrier, The Internet, by old-fashioned bottle.
Praise the Lord, and pass the mai tais, will you? God save the Republic. Mahalo.
Feb. 15, 2017