by Charlton Heston

Harvard Law School Forum February 16, 1999

I remember my son when he was five, explaining to his kindergarten class what his father did for a living. "My Daddy," he said, "pretends to be people."

There have been quite a few of them. Prophets from the Old and New Testaments, a couple of Christian saints, generals of various nationalities and different centuries, several kings, three American presidents, a French cardinal and two geniuses, including Michelangelo. If you want the ceiling re-painted I'll do my best. There always seem to be a lot of different fellows up here. I'm never sure which one of them gets to talk. Right now, I guess I'm the guy.

As I pondered our visit tonight it struck me: If my Creator gave me the gift to connect you with the hearts and minds of those great men, then I want to use that same gift now to re-connect you with your own sense of liberty ... your own freedom of thought ... your own compass for what is right.

Dedicating the memorial at Gettysburg, Abraham Lincoln said of America, "We are now engaged in a great Civil War, testing whether this nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure." Those words are true again. I believe that we are again engaged in a great civil war, a cultural war that's about to hijack your birthright to think and say what resides in your heart. I fear you no longer trust the pulsing lifeblood of liberty inside you ... the stuff that made this country rise from wilderness into the miracle that it is. Let me back up. About a year ago I became president of the National Rifle Association, which protects the right to keep and bear arms. I ran for office, I was elected, and now I serve ... I serve as a moving target for the media who've called me everything from "ridiculous" and "duped" to a "brain-injured, senile, crazy old man." I know ... I'm pretty old but I sure Lord ain't senile.

As I have stood in the crosshairs of those who target Second Amendment freedoms, I've realized that firearms are not the only issue. No, it's much, much bigger than that.

I've come to understand that a cultural war is raging across our land, in which, with Orwellian fervor, certain acceptable thoughts and speech are mandated. For example, I marched for civil rights with Dr. King in 1963 -- long before Hollywood found it fashionable. But when I told an audience last year that white pride is just as valid as black pride or red pride or anyone else's pride, they called me a racist.

I've worked with brilliantly talented homosexuals all my life. But when I told an audience that gay rights should extend no further than your rights or my rights, I was called a homophobe.

I served in World War II against the Axis powers. But during a speech, when I drew an analogy between singling out innocent Jews and singling out innocent gun owners, I was called an anti-Semite.

Everyone I know knows I would never raise a closed fist against my country. But when I asked an audience to oppose this cultural persecution, I was compared to Timothy McVeigh.

From Time magazine to friends and colleagues, they're essentially saying, "Chuck, how dare you speak your mind. You are using language not authorized for public consumption!"

But I am not afraid. If Americans believed in political correctness, we'd still be King George's boys-subjects bound to the British crown.

In his book, "The End of Sanity," Martin Gross writes that "blatantly irrational behavior is rapidly being established as the norm in almost every area of human endeavor. There seem to be new customs, new rules, new anti-intellectual theories regularly foisted on us from every direction. Underneath, the nation is roiling. Americans know something without a name is undermining the nation, turning the mind mushy when it comes to separating truth from falsehood and right from wrong. And they don't like it."

Let me read a few examples. At Antioch college in Ohio, young men seeking intimacy with a coed must get verbal permission at each step of the process from kissing to petting to final copulation ... all clearly spelled out in a printed college directive.

In New Jersey, despite the death of several patients nationwide who had been infected by dentists who had concealed their AIDs --- the state commissioner announced that health providers who are HIV-positive need not .. need not ... tell their patients that they are infected.

At William and Mary, students tried to change the name of the school team "The Tribe" because it was supposedly insulting to local Indians, only to learn that authentic Virginia chiefs truly like the name.

In San Francisco, city fathers passed an ordinance protecting the rights of transvestites to cross-dress on the job, and for transsexuals to have separate toilet facilities while undergoing sex change surgery.

In New York City, kids who don't speak a word of Spanish have been placed in bilingual classes to learn their three R's in Spanish solely because their last names sound Hispanic.

At the University of Pennsylvania, in a state where thousands died at Gettysburg opposing slavery, the president of that college officially set up segregated dormitory space for black students.

Yeah, I know ... that's out of bounds now. Dr. King said "Negroes." Jimmy Baldwin and most of us on the March said "black." But it's a no-no now. For me, hyphenated identities are awkward ... particularly "Native-American." I'm a Native American, for God's sake. I also happen to be a blood-initiated brother of the Miniconjou Sioux. On my wife's side, my grandson is a thirteenth generation native American ... with a capital letter on "American."

Finally, just last month ... David Howard, head of the Washington D.C. Office of Public Advocate, used the word "niggardly" while talking to colleagues about budgetary matters. Of course, "niggardly" means stingy or scanty. But within days Howard was forced to publicly apologize and resign.

As columnist Tony Snow wrote: "David Howard got fired because some people in public employ were morons who (a) didn't know the meaning of niggardly,' (b) didn't know how to use a dictionary to discover the meaning, and (c) actually demanded that he apologize for their ignorance." What does all of this mean? It means that telling us what to think has evolved into telling us what to say , so telling us what to do can't be far behind.

Before you claim to be a champion of free thought, tell me: Why did political correctness originate on America's campuses? And why do you continue to tolerate it? Why do you, who're supposed to debate ideas, surrender to their suppression?

Let's be honest. Who here thinks your professors can say what they really believe? It scares me to death, and should scare you too, that the superstition of political correctness rules the halls of reason.

You are the best and the brightest. You, here in the fertile cradle of American academia, here in the castle of learning on the Charles River, you are the cream. But I submit that you, and your counterparts across the land, are the most socially conformed and politically silenced generation since Concord Bridge. And as long as you validate that ... and abide it ... you are-by your grandfathers' standards-cowards.

Here's another example. Right now at more than one major university, Second Amendment scholars and researchers are being told to shut up about their findings or they'll lose their jobs. Why? Because their research findings would undermine big-city mayor's pending lawsuits that seek to extort hundreds of millions of dollars from firearm manufacturers.

I don't care what you think about guns. But if you are not shocked at that, I am shocked at you. Who will guard the raw material of unfettered ideas, if not you? Who will defend the core value of academia, if you supposed soldiers of free thought and expression lay down your arms and plead, "Don't shoot me."

If you talk about race, it does not make you a racist. If you see distinctions between the genders, it does not make you a sexist. If you think critically about a denomination, it does not make you anti-religion. If you accept but don't celebrate homosexuality, it does not make you a homophobe.

Don't let America's universities continue to serve as incubators for this rampant epidemic of new McCarthyism. But what can you do? How can anyone prevail against such pervasive social subjugation?

The answer's been here all along. I learned it 36 years ago, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C., standing with Dr. Martin Luther King and two hundred thousand people.

You simply ... disobey. Peaceably, yes. Respectfully, of course. Nonviolently, absolutely. But when told how to think or what to say or how to behave, we don't. We disobey social protocol that stifles and stigmatizes personal freedom. I learned the awesome power of disobedience from Dr. King ... who learned it from Gandhi, and Thoreau, and Jesus, and every other great man who led those in the right against those with the might.

Disobedience is in our DNA. We feel innate kinship with that disobedient spirit that tossed tea into Boston Harbor, that sent Thoreau to jail, that refused to sit in the back of the bus, that protested a war in Viet Nam.

In that same spirit, I am asking you to disavow cultural correctness with massive disobedience of rogue authority, social directives and onerous law that weaken personal freedom. But be careful ... it hurts. Disobedience demands that you put yourself at risk. Dr. King stood on lots of balconies.

You must be willing to be humiliated ... to endure the modern-day equivalent of the police dogs at Montgomery and the water cannons at Selma.

You must be willing to experience discomfort. I'm not complaining, but my own decades of social activism have taken their toll on me. Let me tell you a story.

A few years back I heard about a rapper named Ice-T who was selling a CD called "Cop Killer" celebrating ambushing and murdering police officers. It was being marketed by none other than Time/Warner, the biggest entertainment conglomerate in the world. Police across the country were outraged. Rightfully so-at least one had been murdered. But Time/Warner was stonewalling because the CD was a cash cow for them, and the media were tiptoeing around it because the rapper was black. I heard Time/Warner had a stockholders meeting scheduled in Beverly Hills. I owned some shares at the time, so I decided to attend. What I did there was against the advice of my family and colleagues. I asked for the floor. To a hushed room of a thousand average American stockholders, I simply read the full lyrics of "Cop Killer"-every vicious, vulgar, instructional word. "I GOT MY 12 GAUGE SAWED OFF I GOT MY HEADLIGHTS TURNED OFF I'M ABOUT TO BUST SOME SHOTS OFF I'M ABOUT TO DUST SOME COPS OFF..." It got worse, a lot worse. I won't read the rest of it to you. But trust me, the room was a sea of shocked, frozen, blanched faces. The Time/Warner executives squirmed in their chairs and stared at their shoes. They hated me for that. Then I delivered another volley of sick lyric brimming with racist filth, where Ice-T fantasizes about sodomizing two 12-year old nieces of Al and Tipper Gore. "SHE PUSHED HER BUTT AGAINST MY ...." Well, I won't do to you here what I did to them. Let's just say I left the room in echoing silence. When I read the lyrics to the waiting press corps, one of them said "We can't print that." "I know," I replied, "but Time/Warner's selling it." Two months later, Time/Warner terminated Ice-T's contract. I'll never be offered another film by Warners, or get a good review from Time magazine. But disobedience means you must be willing to act, not just talk. When a mugger sues his elderly victim for defending herself ... jam the switchboard of the district attorney's office. When your university is pressured to lower standards until 80% of the students graduate with honors ... choke the halls of the board of regents.

When an 8-year-old boy pecks a girl's cheek on the playground and gets hauled into court for sexual harassment ... march on that school and block its doorways. When someone you elected is seduced by political power and betrays you ...petition them, oust them, banish them.

When Time magazine's cover portrays millennium nuts as deranged, crazy Christians holding a cross as it did last month ... boycott their magazine and the products it advertises. So that this nation may long endure, I urge you to follow in the hallowed footsteps of the great disobediences of history that freed exiles, founded religions, defeated tyrants, and yes, in the hands of an aroused rabble in arms and a few great men, by God's grace, built this country.

If Dr. King were here, I think he would agree.

Thank you.

Did I ever tell you about my old girlfriend Deborah?

          I have this problem with Deborah. We often wrestle and attack each other playfully, as many couples do.  The problem is, I'm so physically superior to her that I can easily pin her and torture her, so obviously I often do. With no ability to retaliate sufficiently by       brute force, she has taken to throwing out all conceptions of fair play and international standards of morally acceptable warfare, and gassing me when my defenses are down. Like a few weeks ago I was dogging her fuckie style, and just cruising along, you know, and sort   of gripping and kneading her buttocks, when suddenly I was enveloped in a blinding cloud of the most intensely noxiousand foul fumes. Sensitive and naive sucker that I am, I assumed I had accidentally released it myself by breaking the hermetic seal of her sphincter with my gluteal manipulations, so to avoid embarrassing her I didn't say anything, even though my erection went limp, I started reeling drunkenly, and it was all I could do to keep from puking on her back. By a herculean effort of will, I staggered back on track and finished my duty, ereupon I immediately collapsed forward onto her back, eyes still watering, and both of us flumped onto the mattress.  We lay prostrate for a few seconds, breathing heavily. Then, to my surprise,      Deborah popped up onto her elbows bursting with glee and said, "Did you smell that fart?"  After it became apparent that she had not only hideously injured me but iced the cake by psyching me out, she was       helpless with laughter, which facilitated the medieval-style beating I then administered. Unfortunately, that was not the end of it.Just the other day we were being all snuggly and disgusting in bed, nuzzling and smooching, and she whispered eathlessly, "Kiss my   butt." Trembling with desire, I pulled back the sheet to reveal her glorious ass. Caressing it tenderly, I was overwhelmed with the devastating love that fills the heart of a new father cradling his firstborn in his arms.  I leaned down, an expression of blissful rapture on my face, and sank my puckered lips into her delectable buttock.  At that instant, she unleashed a chthonic eruption of hot, greasy methane into my face.  I have to hand it to her, it was a real  window-rattler.  The shock waves generated by her clapping ass flaps at such close range rendered me insensate.  My eyebrows are just beginning to grow back in.  I have evidently repressed my memories of what I did to her when I came to, but I can assure you that it was not pretty. Now, I must admit, I am the one who initially opened the Pandora's box of gaseous assault, although in that case I was completely justified and acting in self-defense.  Deborah and I were standing around naked in my bedroom talking about something or other. I was right in the middle of making some point, but what happened next eradicated every trace of what I was talking about from my memory. With no provocation or forewarning (apparently acting impulsively on a long-cherished fantasy), she reached down, pulled out her sodden, saturated tampon, executed some nunchaku-style moves complete with simulated whishing sounds, and whacked me full in the face with it, leaving a smear of chunky uterine blood across my nose. Silenced in mid-word, struggling to wrap my mind around the enormity of what had just befallen me, I just stared as she collapsed onto the bed, totally incapacitated with laughter. But happily, fate took pity on me, and it dawned on me that I had a massive protofart in the chamber, locked and loaded.  She was laughing so hard that she was making no sound, just convulsing, and was utterly paralyzed, so it was a simple matter to pin her wrists down beside her head and execute a deft pommel-horse move (supported by my arms, legs split and both pointing upward at a 30 degree angle, toes pointed), positioning my bare anus 1 cm from her    face.  She had just enough time to whip her head as far around as she could before I pulled the trigger and blasted her, laying a rancid slick of colonic exudate on her cheek and neck.  I deftly leapt out of the blackened crater and launched into a wild Deion Sanders-style celebratory dance, while poor Debcakes alternately gasped for oxygen and screamed her lungs out. The exhilaration of winning an Olympic gold medal must surely pale by comparison with that victory, snatched as it was from the maw of such a devastatingly ignominious defeat. The only problem was, an unfortunate precedent had been set, and her cranky and irregular bowels are much more flatulent than mine, which has created a significant "fart gap," if you will.

My question to you is, are there foods which one can eat which will reliably provide some good ammunition after a little while? Obviously the common wisdom is that beans are good fart fodder, but as you know common wisdom is an oxymoron.   What do you suggest?

                          --DK

  P.S.  She has put me on notice that she will piss in my bed at some point.      She sez it is an overwhelming urge that she has already almost  Yielded to, and it's only a matter of time.  What to do?

--DK

For the pissing thing..............I would lay some heavy duty aluminum foil under her side of the bed separated by some cloth............then hook the terminals of a car battery to the two pieces of foil. You may want to apply some resistance to the line in the form of a working motor like a small fan.....something with low amperes. She may piss more than she intends to and you may have to peel her off the ceiling.  As for gas............I thought once over 40 just about anything rougher than water would cause a needed finger pulling.  Try a meal at Oktoberfest next month washed down with buckets of dark bier.  Gazundhieght...........and Farfurgnugen.   However, I believe I would concentrate most heavily on the tampon payback as this is truly the most offensive of the pranks.  There must be a way to inject alum into the tampon wrapper so as to cause an intense puckering of the now foul vagina.  It works on the mouth when alum is dissolved in milk.........seems like the same principle and I don't believe it will cause any permanent damage; physically that is.  If you cannot wait for Oktoberfest, I will make and bring you some of my turkey chili........oh man!  Hope things go well with you.

More about Deb

Dear Debcakes:

 I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our  "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I  swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little  boy in me talking.  Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my  fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess  my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride's cost me a lot of  things. I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about  looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one  of us does. Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt.  And this is hat my heart says... "There's no one like you, Debcakes."

 I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but  they're not you. They're not even close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at  the Rainbow Room and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you,  but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation. She was young, Debcakes,  maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a  childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body.  Tits you wouldn't believe and an ass like a tortoise shell.  Every man's dream, right?  But as I sat on the couch being blown by this coed, I thought, look at  the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so surface. What  does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case,  yes.  But you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does  she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Debcakes? I doubt it.  And I'd never really thought of that before. I don't know, maybe I'm just  growing up a little.  Later, after I'd tossed her about a quart of throat yogurt, I found  myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her  flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else.  Some tingling feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit  me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there, Debcakes, to watch. Do  you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you, baby. Jesus, Debcakes,  I'm just going crazy without you.  And everything I do just reminds me of you. Do you remember Carol, that  single mom we met at Mt. Sinai Baptist Church? Well, she drops by last  week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured I wasn't eating right  without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but  that's not the real story. Anyway, we have a few glasses of wine and the  next thing you know we're fucking in our old bedroom. And this broad's a  total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know like a real woman does  when she's not hung up about God and her career and whether the kids can  hear us. And all of a sudden she spots that tilting mirror on your  grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it,  right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me  sad too. 'Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Debcakes ever put the  mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we  never used it as a sex aid." (Some of this I thought about later.)  You know what I mean? What happened to our spontaneity?  You get so caught  up in the routine of a marriage and you just lose sight of each other. And  then you lose yourself. That's the saddest part of all for me.  But I keep thinking we can get it back. I know we can, because I only  want this stuff with you. Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of  the restraining order. I mean, Shannon's just a kid and all, but she's got a  pretty good head on her shoulders. She's been a real friend to me during  this painful time. She's given me lots of good counsel about you and  about women in general. (She's pulling for us to get back together, Debcakes.  She really is.)  So we're drinking in the hot tub and talking about happier times. Here's  this hot girl with the same DNA as you (although, let's face it, she  got an extra helping of the sexy gene) and all I can do is think of how  much she looks like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry.  And then it turns out Shannon's really into the whole anal thing and  that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying   it and how that probably fueled some of the bitterness between us. But do  you  see how even then, when I'm thrusting inside the steaming hot Dutch oven  of  your sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you? It's true,  baby.  In your heart you know it.  Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances  and start fresh? I think we can. I keep thinking that I think if you'd  just try it, I wouldn't have to pressure you so much. Because who needs all  that bitterness, Debcakes? It just tears us apart. And I can't be apart from  you.

Because I love you.

Brad,

It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now, I feel like the worst person ever. First, let me start by saying that I am truly truly sorry, and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people in the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. There is no excuse at all or anything that happened, so I won't even try other than to say all of us had WAY too much to drink, and I did a stupid thing. I can handle you being pissed at me, I absolutely deserve it, I can even handle the ugly words that were exchanged between us, what I can't handle is thinking that you see me as a different person.

It is weird, I feel like I just went through a horrible break up or something. The world looked funny yesterday, I couldn't crack a smile if you paid me, there are songs I can't listen to, and I just feel beyond crushed. I don't know if you meant everything you said to me, and I am hoping that you didn't. I know that I was wrong on many levels, but I am also hoping that this is something that we can deal with. I know it sounds totally crazy and stupid, but you have come to play such a significant role in my life, I can't imagine my days without you.

It is totally strange and weird to say that, and you could say that my behavior didn't reflect that, and you would be correct. I hate feeling like you hate me, and I hate feeling like all of your friends think I am a terrible person, because I am not. I know there is nothing I can Say or do to take back what happened, but I just want you to know that fighting with you was just about the worst thing I could have ever imagined. It was right up there with one of the ugliest nights of my life, and I would give anything in the world to rewind and fix it. I am not sure if you will respond to this, part of me thinks that you won't. If not today, then maybe some other time.

Also, thanks for getting my stuff together, although I think my sunglasses are still at your house, if you could keep your eyes peeled for them that would be great. I can't even focus or work today, I can't eat, I seriously feel like it was an ugly break up, and I am hoping against hopes that it was not that and you are not done with me. Please don't cut me off, I really don't think I can handle that.

I am so sorry.

Elizabeth

------------------------------------

RESPONSE:

Dear Elizabeth,

Thank you for your concern. I'll be sure to file it away under "L" for "Long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn't care less about".

You did a stupid thing huh? No...doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is "a stupid thing"; Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is "a stupid thing"; Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you're taking so long because you ate too much bran that morning isn't as much a "Stupid thing" as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.

To be honest, I'm not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet not once but twice in a 2 hour span, or that you seemed to think that by saying "Well, I didn't F**k him" somehow gave you a clean slate. So forgive me if I couldn't care less if the world "looked funny" to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada Bags and Jelly Beans, I'm sure it must have been most unsettling to actually have to consider someone else's feelings for 24 hours straight. The good news for you is that my friends don't think you're a terrible person, they just think you're the average run of the mill cum-guzzling blonde who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector.

I could be wrong but, it's pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she's seeing someone else in New jersey and winds up tongue-bathing the taint of anyone who decides 30 minutes of droning commentary on Colin Farrell's new haircut is worth putting up with for a hand job in the men's room. The good thing about being a guy is that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser last saturday, we'll have a shot and laugh our heads off about the time it happened.

By the way, for the amount of time you claim to spend in spin class you really must be doing something wrong to sport the thunder thighs you do. Watching you parade around my bedroom in a thong was a little like watching sea lions mate. Thought you might like to know.

PS. I forwarded about 100 people on this email.

Talk to you never,

Brad

The Station

Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision. We are traveling by train - out the windows, we drink in the passing scenes of children waving at a crossing, cattle grazing on a distant hillside, row upon row of corn and wheat, flatlands and valleys, mountains and rolling hillsides and city skylines.

But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day, we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we get there, our dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. Restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes - waiting, waiting, waiting for the station.

"When we reach the station, that will be it!" we cry. "When I'm 18." "When I buy a new 450sl Mercedes Benz!" "When I put the last kid through college." "When I have paid off the mortgage!" "When I get a promotion." "When I reach retirement, I shall live happily ever after!"

Sooner or later, we realize there is no station, no one place to arrive. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.

"Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled with Psalm 118:24: "This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tomorrow. Regret and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today.

So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.

A letter from my best friend and Boss